


Growth

by sapphose



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst, Cultural Differences, Episode: s07e23 Extreme Measures, Episode: s07e25 What You Leave Behind, F/M, Getting Together, Introspection, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Cardassia, Post-Episode: s07e25 What You Leave Behind, Slow Burn, copious references to section 31, dealing with stress and guilt, writing letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 45,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25339684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphose/pseuds/sapphose
Summary: Julian and Garak grapple with their pasts and their feelings for each other at the end of the series.
Relationships: Julian Bashir & Elim Garak, Julian Bashir & Ezri Dax, Julian Bashir & Kira Nerys, Julian Bashir & Miles O'Brien, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak, Julian Bashir/Ezri Dax
Comments: 346
Kudos: 190





	1. Late Night in the Infirmary

**Author's Note:**

> I swore that the next thing I wrote would be a follow up to "Two Truths." That is drafted, but I watched the finale and the documentary and all this came out instead. It is shaping up to be the longest thing I have ever written, and took me completely by surprise. I hope you enjoy it!

Kira’s head is bowed, her eyes closed, and although Julian can’t hear her he can see her lips moving, mouthing unfamiliar words.

She’s praying.

Part of him wants to turn around and go the other way, respect her privacy, but he knows putting off the difficult conversation won’t make it easier.

He clears his throat, and her eyes fly open.

“Doctor.”

“Hello, Colonel.” He pauses a moment. “Nerys.”

As usual, she doesn’t waste words.

“How is he?”

There is no point in lying.

“Not well. I think it would be better if he could revert to his natural state, but apparently one of the features of the disease is that it restricts his abilities. For all purposes, he’s a solid right now. I just don’t understand how he advanced to late-stage so quickly.”

Kira looks down.

“He didn’t want to admit how bad things had gotten. He kept pushing himself… changing form whenever we needed him to… He wanted us to pretend that everything was fine.”

Years ago, Julian wouldn’t have known what to do. He’s still not sure if Kira likes him or not, but now he at least feels that they respect each other. He takes a step forward.

“I promise, I haven’t given up. I’ll do whatever it takes to find a cure.”

As long as she doesn’t ask what that is. He’s been turning Miles’ suggestion over and over in his mind, trying to figure out if they can really make it work.

“I know.” Kira’s voice is soft. Julian can’t recall the last time he heard her sound like that. “I appreciate it.”

It’s late. Julian should return to his quarters, should encourage Kira to do the same. They’ll both need all the rest they can get in the days ahead.

But sleep doesn’t feel possible right now, not when Odo needs them.

With a sigh, Julian sits.

Once, the silence would have gnawed at him, itching until he tried to fill it with noise. When did he get comfortable with quiet? It was one of the things that had happened gradually, without him noticing.

Funny how much a person can change when they aren’t looking.

Kira is the one to speak first.

“Has Garak come by?”

Julian chuckles darkly.

“No, he doesn’t particularly like the infirmary.” _Or me, at the momen_ _t._ “Why, was he injured?”

“Not seriously.” Kira rubs her knees absently, looking off into the distance. Julian wonders what she sees. Is she remembering Cardassia? “I noticed you two stopped having lunch together.”

Julian shrugs off the question.

“We were both busy. With the war.” This is partly true. Starfleet Command kept Garak busy decoding encrypted transmissions, and Julian had his hands full with emergency injuries, battle drills, and supply requisitions.

It’s easy to pretend that was the only reason.

Julian realizes with discomfort that Kira is now watching him intently, with an expression that he can’t quite read.

“At the time, I thought it was a good thing. You spending less time with a Cardassian spy.” She smiles slightly. “It takes a lot to change my mind about someone, you know. But I’m starting to think that maybe I was wrong about him.”

Julian wonders, not for the first time, what exactly they experienced on the planet. There’s always pieces that get left out of official reports, the bits that people try to forget, or can’t bring themselves to write. He knows better than to ask.

“That’s quite a compliment,” Julian says, working not to sound bitter. “I hope he appreciates it.”

“He’s going back to help Damar. They’ll be leaving soon.”

Julian bites down on the first thought that comes to mind, something along the lines of _Well, at least he’s getting what he always wanted. Cardassia, at any cost_.

Kira leans her head back and gazes up at the fluorescent infirmary ceiling.

“If there’s something you want to say to him, you should do it before he leaves,” she advises.

There is no time for the conversation they most need to have. There’s a morphogenic virus to cure and a plan to lay and a spy to trap, not to mention approving the final lists for the medical bay in the new battleship and revising the shift schedule again as the situation worsens.

“I will when he gets back,” Julian says.

After all, he has to come back.

And before he leaves, there’s business to attend to. The beginnings of an idea are germinating in Julian’s mind; maybe he will need to speak with Garak after all.


	2. Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between S07 E172 “Tacking Into the Wind” and S07 E173 “Extreme Measures." Where did Julian get a pair of Romulan mind probes?

“I need your help with something.”

Julian announces it without prologue, standing in the doorway with arms folded across his chest.

If Garak were a different kind of person, perhaps a different species with a good deal less self-control, he might say _fuck off_ and go back to sleep. But he is not, unfortunately, such a person. So instead he slices open his face with a razor blade smile.

“Good evening to you too, Doctor.”

It is not evening; it is the middle of the night, generally recognized as a time for sleeping, and Garak has not been getting enough sleep lately.

“I need a Romulan mind probe.”

“Of course you do. Anything else I can get you while I’m at it? Kemocite? Biomimetic gel? Maraji or Tallonian crystals? Maybe you’d also like a Romulan cloaking device.”

“I’m being serious, Garak.”

It’s been years, and Garak no longer misses the implant quite as much. The only exceptions are instances like this one, where the rush of endorphins would be very helpful in preventing him from committing murder.

“Where did you even hear of such a device? I’m assuming it’s not a standard topic of conversation at Starfleet Medical.”

“That’s not important.”

“I suppose you also aren’t in the mood to tell me why you need it?”

“I can’t.”

“I thought not. Good night, Doctor.”

Garak moves to close the door, but Julian sticks out an arm, knowing that the automatic safety backup will sense his mass.

“Garak, _please_.”

It’s that plea that catches Garak, the desperate, ragged edge to the voice. How long has it been since Julian slept?

It’s against his better judgment, but Garak takes a step back and allows Julian to enter his quarters. There is no sound but the soft hum of the door shutting behind.

“I think you owe me an explanation,” the Cardassian prompts dryly.

Julian’s sigh is heavy.

“I’m not just being difficult. There’s a lot of things I can’t tell you. I haven’t even told Sisko some of it. You’ll have to trust me.”

Garak had already tried that. It hadn’t end the way he hoped, and he decided that the experiment was not worth replicating.

“Why don’t I tell you what I think, and you can tell me if I’m wrong, hmm?” He crosses over to a cabinet and pulls out the bottle of kanar that he has been saving. No telling if he’ll come back to these quarters ever again; no sense in wasting a bottle of the good stuff.

He wouldn’t turn his back on a Cardassian at this hour, not one with such dangerous need in their eyes. But Julian is Federation through and through.

“I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“I won’t pour you a glass, then.” But Garak pours one himself, filling it to the brim until there really isn’t room for one more drop. “Now then, where to begin…” He takes a sip, and allows the alcoholic burn to clear his head. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“That’s not-”

“If you want my help, you really should let me finish. Interrupting is terribly bad manners.”

Julian opens his mouth to say something, but then snaps it shut and drops unceremoniously into a chair.

“Take your time,” he says, and it sounds like he’s forcing the words out through gritted teeth.

Garak almost feels bad. Almost.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he repeats. “And I admire the care with which you’ve done it. Never abrupt, never alarming. A late shift here, a missed lunch there. Very well thought-out, to avoid any hurt feelings. How kind of you.” Another sip of kanar, longer this time. Might as well make the most of it. “Our last lunch was before you went to the conference on Romulus.”

“I think I will have that drink, after all,” Julian interjects, and Garak bows formally.

“Of course.”

He pours the second cup with the satisfaction one can only get from knowing a secret one shouldn’t know.

“Cheers,” Julian mutters, and they clink their drinks together, a farce of celebration.

“I was very interested in the events of that conference, you know. I miss Senator Cretak, don’t you?”

Julian says nothing, but his grip tightens around the stem of the glass. Garak takes this as a sign to push harder.

“And what an interesting coincidence, don’t you think, that you should be asking me about a Romulan device after spending time on that planet?”

“You told me once, and I quote, ‘coincidences happen every day.’”

“Yes, I’m aware of your perfect recall, Doctor. It’s a skill that must be very useful in your line of work.”

Garak takes another drink, wonders if the buzz is coming from the alcohol or the power of being an inquisitor once more.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Julian’s voice is clipped, and he places his glass on a side table with a hand clenched too tight.

“Is that what you said when they tortured you?”

The chair falls to to the floor with a crash as Julian stands up too fast.

“Whatever you _think_ you know, you don’t understand.”

“Then tell me. You’ll find I’m a very good listener.”

“So listen to this. I. _Can’t_.”

Squaring off now, face to face, eyes locked. Garak feels a thrill run down his spine, and knows that it is nothing compared to the hormonal high _after_ the kill.

His voice is genial, but his eyes are deadly.

“Romulan mind scanners are banned in the Federation, my dear. Should I report that you’ve been looking for one? I do have a nice connection with the Starfleet authorities, ever since my little spot of code-breaking.”

He’s chosen just the right pressure point. The doctor scowls.

“You’re a hypocrite,” Julian snarls. “After all the times I’ve trusted you.”

“I warned you to be more cynical.”

Garak doesn’t look away as he drains his glass dry. The comfort of kanar will keep him warm, at least for tonight.

“Dammit, Garak, Odo is _dying_. This is the only way I can save him.”

Not the usual form a confession takes, but Garak accepts it anyways. It makes sense. Someone deliberately engineered the virus- someone who could be brought to the station and scanned for information.

But someone who Julian doesn’t dare identify, not even to his beloved captain.

“Being a spy isn’t what you imagined, is it?” Garak leans forward, and his next words are a hiss. “When they were interrogating you, did you think of me? Did you wonder if that’s how I would have done it?”

For a moment, their faces are so close that Garak can imagine what it would feel like to kiss.

The shove comes as a shock.

It doesn’t hurt him; Julian would have to try far harder to do that. But it surprises him, and that is much more rare.

“I can have the device in two days,” Garak says.

Julian nods.

“Fine.”

Garak waits until the door closes, then reaches again for the bottle of kanar, to toast to victory.


	3. The Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during "What You Leave Behind," as everyone careens towards the end of the war.

Julian knows that _smug_ is the wrong look to wear on the bridge of a ship heading out to war, as unwelcome as _she loves me_ or _I just had a terrific shag last night_. But the grin is there anyways. Garak always did tell him his face is too open- but Julian isn’t thinking about Garak, no, not when there’s Ezri to think about, Ezri with her eyes like Jadzia but a smile that’s all her own, and the feeling of cool hands on his feverish body, reminding him that he’s alive.

He tries to suppress the smile, after Miles has something sarcastic to say about other people having been in love before, but it keeps wanting to come out, so he is reduced to biting the insides of his cheeks to keep a straight face and knows his expression must look very strange by the time Odo stops him in the corridor.

Julian returns Odo’s greeting and expects to keep moving. He’s surprised to see that Odo isn’t continuing forward, but is instead hovering, hesitantly, with a kind of uncertainty that the gruff constable rarely shows.

“I’m sure Kira will be all right,” Julian offers, even though he isn’t. Odo nods, but without much conviction.

“She and Garak are survivors,” he replies.

Really, why does everyone think that Julian wants to talk about Garak? He doesn’t, even if there were anything to say, which of course there isn’t. And even if there were, there’s a battle to be fought and Ezri to think about and so much adrenaline coursing through Julian’s body that he probably won’t sleep for a week, which is fine, because he hadn’t slept for a week anyways before the night with Ezri.

He responds with something bland or unremarkable, he isn’t sure what, and sets off again on his path to sick bay.

*************

Garak hasn’t thought about the future in a while.

He used to, often. Laying careful plans of what exactly he would do or say to win back Tain’s favor, the ways in which he could prove that he was still useful. For a brief stint, when that actually seemed possible, he imagined the revenge he would take upon his triumphant return (Dukat would be first on the chopping block, of course).

The dream of repatriation died with Tain. After a certain point, the future became something too bleak to contemplate. Tailoring for Bajorans, helping kill his countrymen for a force that barely tolerated him, watching Cardassia drink poison and refuse the antidote because disloyalty is a fate worse than death… Maybe there wouldn’t even be a future. Maybe the Dominion would finally do what the Federation refused to, and put Garak out of his misery.

The seed of a new future is planted in an unlikely place, the musty soil of a cellar. But it’s nurtured by Mila’s familiar banter, by the strength he had forgotten his people possessed, even by Kira’s irrepressible fire. The ideas begin to put down roots: a life with his mother, in Tain’s grand house, surrounded by a free Cardassia. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Damar (who would have thought it, Damar of all people) in the world they had built together. _Home_.

That hope dies when Mila does.

*************

_It’s going to be fine_.

Julian keeps repeating it to himself, drowning out the thousand things he is resolutely, steadfastly refusing to contemplate.

_Miles will be fine, it’s just his shoulder, he’s hurt that a hundred times, and maybe Miles is leaving to go back to Earth but that will be fine, too, because who needs Miles now that there’s Ezri, and she’s on the bridge and the ship’s being fired on but she’s smart and their shields will hold and it’s all going to be fine, Kira has survived war before and she’s too stubborn to die, and Garak-_

Julian diverts that train of thought immediately.

_It’s going to be fine_.

*************

Garak has lost track of the innumerable times he explained it to Julian. Sacrifice for the state is the highest calling, the duty of every citizen when necessary.

He still never expected to rush a Dominion base with the cry of “ _for Cardassia!_ ” on his lips. Life is full of surprises.

He won’t die until he has revenge.

*************

“Only three of us made it to the briefing room,” Kira’s voice says from the viewscreen on the bridge.

Julian doesn’t ask which three.


	4. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during "What We Leave Behind." Julian and Garak's last scene together in canon. Neither of them knows how to say goodbye.

Julian is tired. The adrenaline wore off far too quickly, and now there is nothing to keep him standing or to protect him from the horrors of what’s been done.

He’s been the good officer, followed orders, didn’t say _really, sir, you can’t leave me in here with Garak because_ _I never told you how I got that pair of Romulan mind probes but…_

It wouldn’t have gone over well, so Julian didn’t try.

He’s never felt this tired.

Eight hundred million dead, and the casualty reports still coming in, and Garak not one of them. Garak, alive in spite of it all.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate me, Doctor?”

For what? For killing the Vorta? For not being dead?

“My exile is officially over. I’ve returned home. Or rather, to what’s left of it…”

Julian doesn’t know exactly what Garak feels like, but he can imagine. Maybe it feels something like coming home from an internment camp, where you spent the time dreaming desperately of rescue, only to have your biggest secret revealed upon your return and your normal life stripped away. Or maybe it feels like discovering that the organization you’ve dedicated your life to, the foundation of your philosophy and all your highest ideals, is a sham.

Maybe Julian knows exactly what it feels like to get what you’ve always wanted, and have it soured by the taste of death.

He doesn’t know how to make it better. He can’t fix this.

“I know things must look bleak to you right now, Garak-”

“Some may say we’ve gotten exactly what we deserve. After all, we’re not exactly innocent, are we? And I’m not just talking about the Bajoran occupation. Our entire history is one of arrogant aggression. We collaborated with the Dominion, betrayed the Alpha Quadrant… There’s no doubt about it, we’re guilty as charged.”

The trouble with Garak is that Julian still can’t tell when he’s speaking in metaphor. Is he talking about Cardassia, or about himself? Is he apologizing, or asking forgiveness, or demanding condemnation? Or is he simply grieving a loss too enormous to contemplate?

“We both know the Cardassians are a strong people.” Julian struggles for words of comfort that work on both levels, _all_ Cardassians and _this_ Cardassian. “They’ll survive. Cardassia will survive.”

“Doctor, please, spare me your insufferable Federation optimism.”

Garak is wrong. It isn’t Federation optimism; it’s barely optimism at all, but it belongs to Julian, not to the behemoth that’s irradiating him with cognitive dissonance.

“Of course it will survive,” Garak continues. “But not the Cardassia I knew. We had a rich and ancient culture. Our literature, music, art were second to none. And now, so much of it is lost. So many of our best people… our most gifted minds…”

Julian thinks guiltily of every time he railed against those gifted minds. And he remembers, also, that Bajor had artists too.

“I’m sorry, Garak. I didn’t mean…” He trails off, feeling useless.

“Quite all right, Doctor.” Julian has known Garak long enough to know that this momentary calm is insincere. “You’ve been a good friend. I’m going to miss our lunches together.”

Is that the truth? Lately, they haven’t been friends at all.

“I’m sure we’ll see each other again,” Julian says, without quite believing it.

“I’d like to think so. But who can say? We live in uncertain times.”

The lingering touch on his shoulder doesn’t make his heart flutter anymore. It feels like lead.


	5. The Long Con

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The present and the future are too big to contemplate, so Garak thinks about the past.

The rubble makes Garak think of Tzenketh. But he doesn’t feel the usual tightness in his chest that accompanies that memory. The sky is too wide open for claustrophobia.

The bare horizon invites a different kind of pain.

Garak doesn’t even know what he’s looking for, sifting through the ash and stones of what was once a house but never quite a home.

There is no Cardassia, today. Tomorrow, there might be. A new government will form, new leaders will emerge, the people will either step back in relief or, empowered by their disobedience, demand a role in shaping the new Cardassia. Perhaps the empire will become self-serving isolationists, like Romulans. Perhaps they’ll open their arms to the Federation and die a second time.

Today, there’s only dust and dirt and destruction.

The work is intense, physically draining, but not very intellectually stimulating, leaving his mind free to wander and wonder.

When the Cardassians left Garak behind on Terok Nor, he knew he’d need a liaison. Not a Bajoran, even he wasn’t charming enough to achieve that, so it would have to be a Starfleet officer. It couldn’t be an ensign; they had to be well-connected enough to feed him information, and respected enough to be believed if he passed a message along through them. Preferably someone young, trusting, impressionable, naive enough to be seduced by mystique.

Dr. Bashir was a better mark than Garak could have imagined. He was fascinatedby secrets and espionage and danger, a bold enough fool to demand a runabout from his superior officer in the middle of the night or square off against Gul Dukat, but still flattered and flustered by any complimentary attention Garak paid him. And beautiful. Garak especially appreciated that the doctor was an exceptionally good-looking young man.

The literature was the first mistake. They could have talked about anything at lunch, clothing or the weather or just thinly-veiled innuendo, but the literature gave Bashir a chance to shine. He was passionate, driven, intelligent, and principled, and Garak found himself arguing indecently to see Bashir’s eyes light up.

Garak could have taken him to bed and been done with it. But the implant changed everything. There Garak was, desperate and addicted and dying, the lowest he had ever been, and after it all the doctor still showed up to lunch. Not only that, but he traveled into Cardassian space to face down Enabran Tain! Of course, Bashir had no idea how dangerous it was to do so, but the fact remained that no one in Garak’s life had ever tried to take his side against Tain. It was unthinkable.

Garak valued the doctor’s friendship highly enough that he never risked it by trying to become something more. (He risked their friendship in numerous other ways, but never because he wanted to, only because he needed to. Even to an exile, Cardassia would always come first.)

It is only when he sees the blood that Garak realizes his hands are cut and torn. He doesn’t feel it. Really, he doesn’t feel much of anything. Numb. Stripped bare.

Will this soil grow anything again? Is it possible for a planet to be pushed too far to heal?

Garak knows it’s possible for a person. He’s done it before. Garak has broken great men with precision and finesse, and has let good men rot to save his own skin. That’s how he’s still alive.

In a way, Garak is grateful for the numbness. There’s no kanar or triptacederine to be found in the ruins. It’s kind of his mind, to find a way to dull the pain.

The sun is high in the sky. It will be many hours until tomorrow. All across Prime, they will have to figure out how to make it through today.


	6. Ezri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian and Ezri talk about the future.

The good thing about matter reclamators is the elimination of waste. Leftover food scraps, unwanted hand-me-downs, shattered dishes broken down and reassembled at the molecular level into whatever is useful and needed. A paragon of efficiency.

Julian sort of hopes that the molecules of his books will end up in medicine.

He’s stacked up the last one when he hears Ezri’s voice behind him.

“Real books are worth a lot of money these days, you know.”

He smiles, but doesn’t turn around.

“Not in a post-currency society.”

“I bet Quark could find you a buyer.”

“He’d probably charge me for the privilege.”

Ezri slips her arms around his waist, and leans her head against him. The warmth of her breath sends shivers down his spine.

“So, are you going to tell me why you’re getting rid of all your Ian Fleming books?”

Julian reaches down and places his hands over her own, savoring the touch, the way his heartbeat feels more real.

“Are you asking as my counselor or as my girlfriend?”

Ezri laughs, and nuzzles his neck.

“Whichever is going to get me an answer.”

Julian turns around slowly. It’s hard to do with her pressed so close against him, but he doesn’t want to leave the protective circle of her arms.

“Did you ever hear of James Bond?”

“No, I must have missed that class at the academy.”

Julian kisses the spots at her right temple, then her left.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re right, I’ll bring them over to Quark’s.” A kiss on the forehead. “But you and I have business first.” A kiss on the nose.

“You’re right, we do.” But she pulls her head back from the kiss he angles at her mouth. “We need to talk.”

“Oh? What about?”

“About us. And about the future.”

“Oh.” Julian freezes. “That kind of talk.” He isn’t very good at that conversation, never has been.

Ezri releases his middle and takes a step back, maintaining contact by grasping his hands in her own.

“It’s nothing to be scared of, Julian.”

“Who’s scared?”

“Right.” She squeezes his hands, then releases them. “You look like I just suggested we adopt a baby targ.”

“I’m fine, really.” He gives her his best winning smile ( _not so boyish anymore_ , a faint voice echoes in his head). “What about the future?”

“Well, you know I came to the station because of Benjamin. I needed… a guide, to what it meant to be Dax. And I’m glad I stayed here. I’ve made friends, and I’ve learned so much, and I found you.”

The adoration in her face should inflame him, but for some reason he just feels cold.

“But?”

“It was great of Benjamin to promote me, but the fact is that I didn’t really finish my training. What’s the human expression? ‘Trial by fire’?” She waits a moment for confirmation, which he gives in the form of a mechanical nod, even though her usage isn’t quite right. “I learned a lot from doing, but I was thinking it might be nice to have a professional mentor again. A senior counselor.”

“You want to do an apprenticeship?” That could be fine. They’ll be needing to bring more counselors onto the station anyways, with all the cases of post-traumatic stress that follow a war.

“Maybe. Or maybe I want to do something different. When we were on the _Defiant_ , I kind of liked being on the bridge. I was thinking, maybe I might make a good communications officer. Or something more.”

“You want to switch to command track?” Julian asks incredulously.

Ezri’s eyes narrow.

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

He reels in his reaction immediately.

“No, I’m just trying to picture it. I think you would look very good in red.” An insinuating smile punctuates the compliment.

Ezri’s face softens.

“I think you like me best out of uniform,” she observes.

“Guilty as charged.” He steps in for the kiss, but she stops him again.

“What about you?”

“I think blue suits me, don’t you?”

“No, Julian. I mean, the war’s over. What do you want to do?” Ezri reaches up and runs a hand along his cheek; he leans into the touch. “There will be expeditions going into the Gamma Quadrant again. New interest in your research. You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to. Even Cardassia is going to need good doctors.”

“I’m not going to Cardassia.” Even as he says it, he can hear that his response is too quick, too sharp. Inwardly, he cringes.

“What do you _want_ to do?” Ezri repeats gently.

Something about that tone rubs him the wrong way. As if he’s fragile, and needs to be handled with care.

Ezri doesn’t realize that he doesn’t have the same freedom she does. Between Section 31 and the revelation of his his genetic engineering, Julian doesn’t know if he’ll ever be offered another position.

“I’ll go wherever you want to.”

Julian is aiming for flirtatious, and he’s alarmed to see that Ezri’s face drops.

“That’s not really an answer,” she says, and when he looks into her eyes he has to ask again if she’s speaking as a lover or a therapist.

Later, Julian asks Kira if she’s going to return to Bajor. She tells him in no uncertain terms that he’s out of his mind if he thinks she’s going to make it as a politician or a farmer, but he can see in her face that she’s been thinking about it too.


	7. Lists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak makes a new plan.

After years of freezing on the station, Garak is grateful for the warmth, lets it seep into his bones. The Dominion at least left the sun alone.

He stacks stones, straining his muscles until they ache, and with each bit of rubble put into order the world becomes a little clearer, a little sharper, a little more in focus.

The list of fears is long, but quick to make. Someone might try to reconstruct the Obsidian Order, or a new version of it. The Federation or the Romulans could orchestrate a coup to ensure that whatever government comes next is sympathetic to them. The Klingons wouldn’t stoop to espionage, and with Martok at the helm they are unlikely to invade, but it’s possible that the warrior populace won’t be happy without another war to fight. On the other hand, too little interest from others would also be a problem. The planet needs supplies that at this point can only come from off-world.

The list of needs comes easily. Clean water. Generators. Medical supplies. Food. The bombings targeted mainly cities, but Garak knows that no aspect of life will be unaffected, including agriculture.

The list of wants gives him pause. He’s out of practice thinking about what he wants. _Cardassian_ means “people of discipline” for a reason. It has never mattered if he wants Delavian chocolates or a good night’s sleep or for an unfortunate accident to happen to Worf; a Cardassian does their duty, and that’s all.

So what is Elim Garak’s duty now? As always, to serve Cardassia. How can he best help rebuild?

There won’t be much use for a tailor. Engineers and doctors are most needed, but Garak is doubtful he holds any sway in that corner anymore.

It was very inconsiderate of Damar to die when he did. Inconvenient. He would have been a leader the people could rally around. Now, as a martyr, he is nothing more than a symbol.

Garak imagines a demagogue with Dukat’s face, and mentally appends it to the list of fears.

He is dimly aware of people passing by, of their dusty, disconsolate faces. The last person he spoke to was Julian- was _Doctor Bashir_. Before that, during his time with the short-lived rebellion, it seemed that he killed as many Cardassians as he met. Hardly a solid foundation on which to build a new society.

There is nothing else for it. Garak will have to leave the wreckage of Tain’s house and introduce himself to people.

The ones he’s seen are scavengers, looters, and refugees. He’ll have to work his way in from the outside, to figure out where the centers of power are blooming.

There’s a wispy want in his chest to stay and clear debris until he finds soil underneath, to plant something fragrant and colorful and watch it grow. But Cardassia doesn’t need flowers or gardeners.

His joints pop and creak as he straightens up with a sigh. His hands are bleeding again. He should do something about that.

Maybe he’s become too accustomed to having blood on his hands.

He learns the names quickly. Bronok and Ranor, two orphaned brothers from north Torr. A widow called Siana. An older woman named Yaltar, the same age as Mila is. Was.

Garak practices being charming and gracious. It is easier to act plain-and-simple when he feels too tired to be dangerous.


	8. Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak and Julian are back in communication... sort of.

It is, unexpectedly, Kira who hears from Garak first. Julian is surprised, but doesn’t allow himself to feel more than that.

At first, the colonel won’t admit what the communication was about, only that she received it and now knows how to communicate with him if need be. After a night spent in prayer and consultation with a vedek, she reveals that he sent her information about Iliana Ghemor, and she is requesting leave to go to Bajor.

_I have something that belongs to her_ , is Kira’s explanation. Julian isn’t sure if she means the bracelet, the _shri-tal_ of Tekeny Ghemor, or if there is something else that has been kept secret.

It gives him a sinking feeling, realizing that he and Ezri are the only original members of the original team left. Kira is coming back, of course, but it still feels like they are being picked off one by one, like soon there will be no one left but Quark and Morn.

Kira gives Garak’s contact information to Julian before she goes, with the instruction to tell him about Sisko. Julian agrees, but privately thinks that Garak probably already knows. If he was able to discover information about Iliana, then he’s probably working in intelligence again.

For all Julian knows, Garak could be reconstructing the Obsidian Order.

He _really_ doesn’t want that to be true.

Ezri says, _If you feel like you need to talk to him, send him a message. The worst thing that can happen is he won’t respond._

Julian does want to talk to him. He wants to try and explain why he started pulling away, and to apologize, and to say that he misses Garak, because he really, truly does. (Ezri may have eight lifetimes of experience, but she does not want to spend her lunch hour discussing how that’s affected her perspective on literature.) (It’s easier for Julian to admit that he misses Garak now that he’s sure Garak won’t be coming back.)

In the end, he sends a short message with a long attachment. An update about Sisko being with the Prophets, Rom and Leeta on Ferenginar, Worf’s ambassadorship. The long attachment is a short story, “The Monkey’s Paw,” about being careful what you wish for. Reference is always a safe way to communicate with Garak.

The response is disappointing.

_Dr. Bashir,_

_Thank you for your kind efforts to inform me about the developments aboard Deep Space 9, and the human literature you included. Cardassia is eager to engage in cross-cultural exchange with the Federation._

_-Garak_

Julian feels like an idiot. He knows that the planet has been devastated by war, the population decimated, the infrastructure destroyed. Garak doesn’t have the time to read fiction and argue with Julian about what it means. ( _Especially not if he’s busy working as a spy again_ , but Julian throttles that thought immediately.)

Ezri asks him if he wants to talk about it, and the whole situation is ironic to the point of absurdity. All his life he’s prattled and babbled to the aggravation of everyone around him, and now that he has someone willing to listen, Julian finds that he doesn’t want to talk at all.

Ezri also rejects his suggestion that they move in together. She says that she only just got used to having seven people in her head, and she’s not ready to have one more permanently in her quarters. Julian nods and doesn’t know how to put into words the fear that crawls in his throat when he wakes up in the middle of the night and knows that no lock, security team, or _Federation optimism_ is going to protect him from Section 31.

When news of the outbreak reaches the station, Julian feels a completely inappropriate surge of relief. It’s not that he’s happy about other people’s misery, but he latches immediately on to a concrete way to help.

_Garak,_

_Attached are the replicator patterns for the vaccine, if you have access to any working replicators. In case you don’t, there’s a shipment coming your way, courtesy of Captain Kasidy Yates-Sisko. It won’t be enough, but it’s a start._

_-Julian_

He doesn’t write about his attempts towards a cure, because he doesn’t want to imply that he knows better than Cardassian scientists and also doesn’t want to ask about how many Cardassian scientists are left.

_Dr. Bashir._

_You may be interested in the research that is being done. I am forwarding along some of the initial findings, courtesy of an acquaintance. Doctors make invaluable friends, I have learned._

_In our usual fashion, I would share with you a piece of Cardassian culture in exchange for the terrible story you sent. Our culture looks a little different now. I’m attaching an image of what our brightest minds are creating._

_If you are going to send me another book, consider one that’s slightly more useful._

_-Garak_

The picture is two lines of scrawled graffiti on a half-collapsed wall. Julian runs it through the computer, before remembering that the language databases never include any swears.

His best attempt at translation for the first line results in: _For Cardassia,_ _we_ _died._ _This is the afterlife._

Below it, a different hand had written: _I_ _did my_ _[-]i_ _ng_ _duty to the_ _[-]ing_ _state. Now what?_


	9. Post-Apocalypse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Garak introspection, as he debates what comes next.

The commlink isn’t Garak’s. It’s a terminal in what used to be a private home, but now is frequented by citizens of all classes sending messages across the union, trying to determine if friends or family are alive.

Garak shouldn’t waste it on communications that aren’t absolutely necessary (and teasing Dr. Bashir, he reminds himself, is not a necessity).

The field medic guide that the doctor sends along is useful, although full of Federation generalizations and notably lacking any specifics about Cardassian anatomy. Garak considers the offer to send a book about building houses, and accepts it on the condition that it doesn’t include any instructions for hideous human interior design.

Garak tuts at Bashir’s indelicate inquiry into the source of information about Iliana Ghemor, and responds with a well-known Cardassian idiom: “Every letter is read three times, the first by the writer and the last by the recipient.”

Truthfully, he doesn’t think much of the state’s censorship network remains, but one can never be too careful when using unencrypted lines. Especially given whatever unfinished business remains between Bashir and Starfleet.

The details are still vague. Garak knows only what the doctor unintentionally confirmed during their last altercation. On Romulus, he was subject to the use of a mind scanner. Someone deliberately engineered the Changeling virus, and Starfleet couldn’t be trusted, leading the doctor to take illegal action. Something about doing so made him trust Garak less, or at least be less interested in Garak’s company.

Garak should be proud. For years he has encouraged Bashir to be cynical, to lie, to cut his losses and take imperfect action. This is the culmination of everything that Garak has tried to teach.

Why doesn’t he feel proud, or pleased?

Garak has gotten everything he wanted. He is back on Cardassia. His enemies are gone, including Dukat. His doctor (no, _the_ doctor, not _his_ doctor) has realized that the Federation is corrupt. Garak will never have to go back to Deep Space 9, or sew another dress, or smile pleasantly at a Bajoran who would like to see him dead. He has the chance to be powerful, influential, and shape the future of his people.

He can be who Tain always wanted him to be.

But Tain is dead.

Garak changes his mind about gardening. Communal vegetable plots will allay the hunger, and if he plants a few flowers, well, that will only serve to boost community morale. It clears his head, gives him time to think. It’s also something of a test. If the orchids can grow in this tainted soil, Garak can too.


	10. Paranoia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian worries that while the war with the Dominion is over, the war with Section 31 is just beginning.

Julian is back to not sleeping. After the end of the war, he was so fatigued and strung-out that he passed out the second his head touched the pillow. In the days that followed, he had spent every night with Ezri, falling asleep with soothing arms twined around him. But now they are navigating a new normal, finding a routine and sense of stability. He no longer falls to bed frightened and exhausted, and Ezri no longer comes over every evening.

So he stops being able to sleep. Instead, he lies in bed running through passenger manifests and crew transfers in his mind, wondering if he would be able to spot a fake name. Section 31 will send a human, of this he is certain (although they had never said it outright, Julian is sure their concept of the Federation is centered around earth), but cosmetic surgery can be convincing and medical records can be faked. He could always get his own readings, but even the station’s Chief Medical Officer can’t go around pointing a tricorder at every entity he doesn’t recognize. Nor can Julian ask Quark about every new civilian and officer on the station. It would be too expensive, for one, and even Quark would turn suspicious eventually.

Ezri already is.

“If something is making you nervous, talk to Remora about it,” is her advice.

Julian raises his eyebrows.

“Since when were you on a given name basis with Constable Ossan?”

“Since she’s teaching me about Bajoran meditation techniques. She’s very easy to talk to.”

It’s true. That conversational ease is how Ossan Remora managed to get appointed as Odo’s replacement, in spite of the initial intent to install a Starfleet security officer.

“I can’t.” Julian knows that drawing more people into the conspiracy will just put them in danger, and that’s assuming they believe him in the first place.

Ezri watches him curiously.

“Okay. Who _can_ you talk to?”

A good question. The only ones who know about Section 31 are Miles, Sisko, Odo, and Kira. Sisko is in the wormhole, Odo is in the Great Link, Miles is on Earth, Kira is on Bajor… Julian is alone.

If he tells Ezri, will it hurt her chances of getting the promotion and transfer she’s hoping for?

Does Garak know?

The last time they spoke, it was clear that Garak knew _something_. More than he should have, in usual fashion. It was also clear that he wasn’t above using what he knew to hurt Julian.

Julian cups Ezri’s face and tries to lose himself in her eyes.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “I’ll deal with it.”

He just doesn’t know how yet.

Two things make Julian’s mind up for him. The first takes place at Quark’s. A middle-aged human man in operations gold orders a root beer.

It’s unclear why the reaction is so extreme, but Quark’s sputtering and muttering of “hew-mons” leaves the man looking alarmed. Julian swallows a laugh and decides to extend an olive branch.

“Welcome to Deep Space 9,” he offers. The other man smiles.

“Thanks. I’m Lt. Howard.”

“Dr. Bashir.”

Lt. Howard’s eyes widen.

“Julian Bashir? No kidding! It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir!”

“Do you know me?”

“I’m familiar with your work. You were up for a Carrington, you know! And your projections with those augments from the institute-”

“I was under the impression that work was classified.”

“Oh, it is. I’m a data analyst. I’m one of the people they pulled in to check your figures. I didn’t agree with your conclusions, of course, but the math was something else.”

A data analyst with access to classified information means Starfleet Intelligence.

Julian excuses himself quickly, trying to stay charming, and makes his way back to his quarters, walking instead of running, nodding politely to the people he passes, trying not to look like he’s just seen a potential assassin.

He has to get off the station. Soon, now, immediately, before Section 31 realizes he’s on to them, before they make their move.

The second catalyst comes in the form of the message.

_Dear Dr. Bashir,_

_My acquaintance is grateful for your notes on antivirals. You can communicate with him directly at the relief center operating out of the Akleen Hospital. Although I can’t say if he’ll appreciate useless house-building guides written by a people who have relied on technology to do everything for them for centuries._

_If you are still in touch with Chief O’Brien, please ask his wife if there is any hardy, nutritious plant she thinks would thrive in our climate._

_-Garak_

The “dear” is an invitation, and Julian takes it. Even if Garak is back to his old line of business, better the devil you know than the danger you don’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quark's hatred of root beer is a reference to the conversations he's had with Nog, Rom, and Garak about it over the course of the show, including calling it the end of Ferengi civilization and a metaphor for the insidious nature of the Federation.


	11. Planting Seeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak is confused

Garak brought very little with him into exile. What would have been the point? He took only what he was sure foreign replicators would never be able to replace. Isolinear rods of his favorite prose and poetry, and a packet of seeds to grow Edosian orchids.

He never planted them, choosing instead to keep it as a promise that he would return to Cardassian soil.

Now, making careful furrows with his fingers and tilling by hand, he turns recent events over and over in his mind.

Bashir did not behave as Garak expected, and Garak never likes to be surprised. He had engineered the letter with both a way out (talk to Dr. Parmak instead) and a way in (continue teasing each other as if nothing has changed), offering Bashir a choice.

Coming to Cardassia was not one of the options.

Yet Bashir’s message is unequivocal.

_Dear Garak,_

_I’m taking some accumulated leave time to bring more vaccine doses, sprouts from Keiko, and a couple samples of an antiviral that’s doing well in experimental trials. You can tell me in person how useless I am then._

_I’ll see you soon._

_-Julian_

How… blatant.

Dr. Bashir has always thrown himself headfirst into any medical puzzle that crosses his path. He even chose to remain in Jem’Hadar captivity in order to try and cure their addiction to ketracel white. It makes sense that, in the absence of officially sanctioned relief efforts, he would take matters into his own hands.

The last two sentences of the letter are what give Garak pause. He had assumed that the doctor’s attempt to reconnect was driven by some sense of obligation, rooted in either pity or guilt, or a fondness borne out of absence. Yet neither of those motivations sufficiently explains why Bashir plainly intends to visit Garak. Will he be forced to endure an insufferable apology, or expected to give one himself? The prospect isn’t particularly appealing.

But that burgeoning sense of _want_ sprouting in his chest has a mind of its own. It isn’t considering their awkward last encounters, or the promise of helpful supplies. It is only thinking about smooth skin and bright eyes and what those long limbs might look like out of uniform.

 _I was cruel_ , he reminds himself uselessly.

The want replies, _He always gives you another chance._

The bright side of Federation optimism, Garak supposes.

There’s still the question of accommodations. Bashir was notably vague around where he plans to sleep at night. In most Federation worlds, one can simply ask for directions to the nearest hotel. In the new Cardassia, citizens sleep in overcrowded camps or the ruined shells of buildings that were once homes.

Is the doctor intending to sleep with Garak- _where_ Garak is sleeping, not _with_ , he corrects himself in disgust.

Hope, he is coming to realize, is its own exquisite form of torture.


	12. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian lands on Cardassia, and immediately is involved in cultural misunderstanding.

Kasidy’s stomach enters the room before the rest of her.

“Are you sure you should be traveling in your condition?” Julian has to ask.

She gives him a warning look.

“Remember who’s giving you a free ride, mister.” She claps a hand on his shoulder. “Besides, if I go into labor mid-flight, you’ll be there to deliver.”

The transport is light on passengers and heavy on cargo. Cardassia Prime is a favor to him, not the real destination. Julian settles in against a bulkhead and tries not to spend the journey thinking about how many ways one could hide a bomb in a shipping container. He tries to believe that Section 31 wouldn’t kill an innocent human Federation citizen, although the fact that Kasidy smuggled for the Maquis makes it difficult for him to convince himself she wouldn’t be viewed as an acceptable loss.

The journey is many hours long, and he does not sleep.

The vaccines are transported directly from the freighter to a refugee camp in the Peldar Sector, using coordinates provided by Garak. The antiviral trial samples in individual stasis canisters are beamed to Akleen Hospital, in arrangement with Dr. Parmak, to aid the research taking place there.

Julian is last onto the transport pad, kit bag slung across his chest and Keiko’s seedlings arrayed at his feet. He offers Kasidy a nervous smile and a wave before the hum of dematerialization washes over him, her parting “good luck” lost as her image dissolves.

Julian reassembles in… a field?

No, not a field, that word conjures up the mental image of something rolling and green. The area may be flat and clear, but the soil is dry and dusty, and the space ringed with cairns of rubble rock and debris.

“Welcome to Cardassia Prime, Dr. Bashir.” That voice. Julian has _missed_ that voice. “Now, what in the name of the union are you wearing?”

He has even missed the sartorial criticism. Julian can’t help but smile as Garak strides towards him, solicitous and pleasant as if they are in his shop in the Promenade instead of a former war zone. As if the distasteful nature of civilian clothing in the Federation is the most important subject they could discuss.

“They’re called shorts, Garak. It’s good to see you too.” And it really is. Garak is less polished than usual, a little more rumpled and ruffled than before, but something about seeing him feels safe. Nothing can go wrong when Garak is there. Or, rather, everything can go wrong, and Garak will still be irrepressibly himself in spite of it.

He presses his lips together into a thin, prim line as he looks Julian up and down.

“Tell me, Doctor, have you ever seen a Cardassian’s bare legs?”

“No, but I assume you have them.” That earns Julian a disparaging look, which he thoroughly enjoys. It’s been months- a year?- since they were able to banter like this.

“Yes, and we don’t put them on display in such a shameless manner.” Garak leans in, flicking his eyes down disapprovingly at the offending garment before meeting Julian’s gaze. “I’m afraid you’ll cause quite a stir if this is how you plan to dress.”

That’s when Julian notices that Garak’s coloring is off somehow. The usual gray of his ridges gone a little darker, a little more blue. A trick of the sunlight? Or else…

Julian laces his fingers together and stretches his arms upwards, which could be excused as needing to realign his body after being cramped in a cargo hold, and has the added benefit of showing off to their fullest extent his arms, legs, and the glimpses of collarbone and midriff allowed by his shirt.

“Are you saying that I’m _distracting_ like this?” He grins with all the implication he can muster.

Garak’s eyes narrow.

It’s a perfect moment, and it’s spoiled almost instantly.

“Garak! Is that your human doctor? I heard the- _oh_. Oh my.”

Julian blushes and scrambles to pull his clothing down as far as it will go, as if he has any modesty or dignity to preserve. The Cardassian woman pinches her lips and eyes him suspiciously.

Garak’s serene face doesn’t betray a hint of laughter, but Julian is sure he is being mocked.

“Yes, this is Dr. Bashir. Humans have a higher body temperature, you know,” Garak adds to his introduction, as if that explains everything. “Doctor, this is Yaltar. She’s helping me organize the community garden.”

“Er, yes, of course. It’s, um, wonderful to meet you!” Julian is sweating, and it isn’t just the heat. He struggles with first impressions even at the best of times, and this is certainly not that.

“Well.” Yaltar stares for a beat, and Julian tries his best to smile and not look agonized. He’s often good with old ladies, all it takes is some boyish charm and a well-placed compliment, but he has the distinct feeling that Yaltar is not going to be easy to win over.

Finally, she speaks.

“You may as well take him somewhere so he can change into something decent, Garak. I’ll take care of the plants.”

“An excellent idea.” Looking disgustingly smug, Garak steps closer and pulls on Julian’s elbow to guide him. “This way, if you please, Doctor.”

Julian keeps his smile wide until Yaltar is behind one of the constructed columns.

“You could have warned me,” he complains. Garak chuckles.

“If I had known what you intended, I would have. You’ve scandalized her, you know.”

Julian’s ears burn. He has only been on the planet’s surface for around 10 minutes, and he’s already managed to offend the local population. It took him longer than that on Deep Space 9 (only until he met Major Kira).

It would be embarrassing enough under normal circumstances, but the Federation has been the enemy of Cardassia in now two consecutive wars. The stakes are high to try and represent humans in a positive light.

Garak must see Julian’s sagging shoulders, because he winks conspiratorially.

“Personally, I find the view to be quite enjoyable,” he comments, and Julian feels himself go even redder, although now for a different reason.

If there’s one thing Garak excels at, it’s distraction.


	13. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak and Julian attempt to communicate. They aren't great at it.

Garak is pleased to note that Bashir is able to tone down his usual expressiveness by the time he’s changed into longer pants. He does not gawp at the charred, crumbled buildings. He responds to the hostile stares and sibilant whispers of strangers with polite nods. He does not even blink at the shack that Garak leads him towards and merrily introduces as “home sweet home, as you humans say.”

Garak does not expound on how lucky they are to have privacy, when so many are crowded together in temporary shelters. He leaves the doctor to infer.

The doctor also keeps his face stoic during their entire visit to the hospital, as he informs Parmak about a similar outbreak on the Gorn homeworld and discusses the finer points of quasi-reptilian anatomy. The emotions only erupt after they’ve left. As soon as the door is closed in Garak’s ‘home,’ the seething begins.

“I can’t believe these conditions,” Bashir fumes. “They’re inhumane.”

Garak raises an eyeridge pointedly.

“Of course they are. We aren’t human.”

“That isn’t what I mean. It doesn’t matter how many vaccines we distribute if people don’t have access to clean drinking water. The Federation needs to do something!”

Well, so much for cynicism and change.

“The Cardassians are a proud people, Doctor. Not everyone wants the Federation’s help.”

Garak watched what that ‘help’ looked like on Bajor. Although it was never explicitly stated, Bajor’s entrance into the hegemony was a tacit condition.

Bashir tears a hand through his hair, as if that will help him see more clearly.

“You still deserve the right to refuse it.”

“The Federation wants to control the Alpha Quadrant. With Cardassia weak, there’s one less enemy to worry about.”

“We aren’t enemies anymore,” Julian counters.

“We are _always_ enemies. The universe is still divided into ‘us’ and ‘them,’ no matter how many temporary alliances are created. Starfleet wants to see Cardassia punished.”

“Well, they’re wrong!”

“Do you really think they would offer us aid, Doctor?”

When the doctor first materialized, Garak was concerned. Not by the so-called shorts, although he certainly has opinions about them. No, he was concerned by the new, sharp angles in the planes of Bashir’s face, the dark shadows under dulled eyes.

Now, the spark of passion in those eyes has reignited.

“They will if I have anything to say about it, Garak.”

Garak wants to believe him. He wants to believe that it is strength and not naivety, that the determination of one man can save a people, that there is no such thing as not deserving help, that life has an inherent dignity worth preserving.

Instead, he hums noncommittally.

“We’ll see.”

The conversation turns to less fraught topics, the kind of plants Keiko sent and the changes happening to the station. Garak listens to the meaning under the words, the shifts in tone and weighty silences. He is particularly interested in the way Bashir trails off when he starts to talk about Ezri’s command courses, the way the eyes start to shift and the hands start to fidget.

“You must be very proud of her,” Garak begins carefully, testing the waters.

The doctor picks at the skin around his thumbnail and doesn’t look at Garak.

“I am.”

That taciturnity is unusual and telling in a human usually so voluble.

Garak could so easily turn the screws, feign ignorance and start asking questions about how long it will take and where Ezri will go next. It would give him information, and control of the conversation, the power of striking where it hurts without ever drawing a weapon.

The thrum of _want_ vibrating in Garak’s chest insists that he does not want Julian to hurt, quite the opposite, that he would much rather make Julian smile.

Manipulating people into happiness is so much harder to do. Garak doesn’t have any training in that.

The doctor seizes the silence as an opportunity to change the subject.

“Parmak seems nice.”

Garak blinks at the non-sequitur.

“‘Nice’ is a meaningless word.”

“The nurse does too,” Bashir continues, ignoring the linguistic point.

“Siana is very… competent,” Garak cautiously allows.

“They both seem to have a good deal of respect for you.”

“I suppose so.” _Where is this going_?

Bashir’s face is suddenly all teeth.

“I’m glad you’re making new friends, Garak.”

So trite it’s nauseating. Garak isn’t making _friends_ , he’s making alliances and connections and influences and-

And why does the idea of making friends bother him so much? The doctor isn’t trying to insult or seek out a weakness. He may be teasing, but that’s par for the course in their relationship. Their friendship that wasn’t, then was, then wasn’t again, and now…

Garak frowns. People are so much more difficult when you care how they feel about you.

He harrumphs instead of responding, rolling words around in his mind.

_I’m glad you’re making new friends, Garak._

_My dear Julian, what does that make you?_


	14. Sleepover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian briefly feels better. It doesn't last.

Julian is trying to be rational. It makes no sense for Section 31 to follow him to Cardassia. He’ll have to return to the station eventually, and it would be easier for them to eliminate him where they have jurisdiction, or rig an accident via shuttle or transporter. It’s unlikely that they have any Cardassian agents or infiltrators. They weren’t expecting him to make this trip, and they’ll have to take at least a day to plan and regroup.

Yet as night falls, Julian can’t keep his eyes from flicking to the flimsy door, and his brain produces alarming calculations.

“Something troubling you, Doctor?”

Of course Garak notices. He always notices, whether or not he chooses to admit it.

“No, no, I’m just, ah…” _Think. Say something!_ “Garak, what would you do if someone were to break in?” Cursing himself mentally, Julian rushes to give some kind of explanation. “I mean, you said there were looters, after all.”

To Julian’s relief, Garak only looks amused.

“I know I told you to be less trusting, but you can have a little more faith in Cardassians than that.”

 _It’s not Cardassians I’m worried about_.

Julian tries to keep his tone light, like it’s part of their usual back and forth.

“Knowing you, I’d expect a booby trap or a hidden alarm system, that sort of thing.”

“To protect me from enemy spies?”

Julian doesn’t like the gleam in Garak’s eyes, and the old fear resurrects itself. _What if he’s rebuilding the Order_?

“Or gettles. I hear they survived the bombardment.”

To his relief, Garak laughs.

“Don’t worry, Doctor. I’ll protect you from wild animals and enemy spies alike.”

Julian takes a bite of his field rations and forces himself to swallow, ignoring the taste. He brought a case of them in his bag, in order not to impinge on Garak’s food supply. The last thing he wants is to be a burden.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Garak’s hand hover, hesitate, then finally come to rest lightly on his shoulder.

Garak’s voice isn’t fanged friendliness, like the first time, or defeated, like the last. It’s something soft that Julian almost doesn’t recognize.

“I’ll keep you safe. Trust me.”

Logically, Julian knows he shouldn’t. Garak still might be a spy, and even if he isn’t, he is definitely dangerous. But Julian is a human, not a Vulcan.

That night, he finally sleeps.

In the morning, he wakes up to a subspace communication on his PADD.

_Hi, Julian,_

_I should have said this to you before you left. I’m sorry- I know this is a terrible way to communicate anything important. But I didn’t think it was right to wait until you got back._

_I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and it might be best if you and I take a break. At least until you’ve finished whatever journey you’re on. I don’t know what it is that you can’t talk about, but maybe, after you’ve sorted it out, we can try again. Maybe the timing will be better. I still like you a lot. I hope that we can be friends._

_(You should talk to someone. It doesn’t have to be me. I’d be happy to recommend a counselor, there are a lot of good ones in the fleet.)_

_I’ll see you when you get back, okay?_

_Love,_

_Ezri_

The ‘love’ at the end makes it worse.

If it were a letter written on paper, Julian could have the satisfaction of crumpling it up and stepping on it or burning it or some other form of catharsis. Instead, all he can do is click the screen to blackness and mope.

“Good news?” a polite voice inquires from the other side of the room.

It is too early in the morning to deal with this facetiousness.

“I remembered that Quark gave me a bottle of kanar for you. It’s still in my bag.”

Of course, Quark has never given anyone anything in his life, and if he were present he would be squawking about character defamation and rules of acquisition.

“How generous,” Garak says doubtfully.

Julian stands with certainty.

“We can open it up this evening, when I get back from the hospital and you get back from… whatever it is you do all day?”

“Gardening, Doctor.”

It doesn’t matter whether or not Julian believes that lie. All that matters is that he can go throw himself into several hours of research, then return and get drunk on overpriced alcohol and self-pity.

And then maybe sleep again.


	15. Ethical Identity Crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian has more feelings than Garak knows what to do with, and it appears to be contagious.

Garak is having a moral quandary. Both a general, ongoing one that began around the time he learned the truth of his parentage and will probably only end with death, and a specific, discrete one with a time limit.

Should he hack into the PADD?

He certainly could. It would be almost trivially easy to accomplish, and it wouldn’t leave a trace. He’d satisfy his curiosity. It would spare Julian the embarrassment of being asked, and Garak the indignity of figuring out how to ask something important without interrogating.

On the other hand, perhaps that’s a skill worth learning. There is something to be said, as well, for privacy, a concept shared by both their cultures. Julian has so far proven to be infinitely forgiving, but there must be a line somewhere, and if there is Garak would rather not cross it unless absolutely necessary.

Still…

He stabs his trowel into the ground with a frown. The tool had been found in the shattered wreck of a garden shed, saving his hands a little.

“Trouble with one of your doctors, Garak?” Yaltar asks jovially.

He pulls on a plain-and-simple smile and evades the question.

“Simply wondering how to make these grow.”

“Patience, generally.” She squats down to examine the seedlings. “Although drought is one of those things we can’t overcome with just a disciplined mind. How did you do it before?”

“It’s… been a while, since I worked in a garden.”

For a moment, Yaltar says nothing, simply pinches a leaf thoughtfully between her thumb and forefinger.

“It doesn’t matter what we were before. You’re gardening now.”

Garak looks down at his cracked, dirty hands.

He’ll make these damn plants grow. And he won’t hack the PADD. At least, not yet.

Only the morning is really spent gardening. The afternoon creeps slowly on in an unsatisfactory community forum that solves very little. There are already factions vying for control of the political vacuum, and Garak doesn’t like any of it.

He likes what he comes home to even less. Julian has already opened the kanar and is cross-legged on the floor, drinking directly from the bottle.

Garak doesn’t remember withdrawal with perfect clarity, but he knows that Julian found him drunk in Quark’s and causing a scene. Is this what that felt like?

“Busy day?” he asks, and he doesn’t mean for it to sound mocking, but somehow the concern creeps into his voice and twists into something else.

“I know almost nothing about Cardassian anatomy and still got pulled in to an emergency surgery, so yes, I’d say so.”

“I thought you were going to the hospital to research.”

“If someone comes in with a crushed leg that needs to be amputated, I’m not going to say, ‘so sorry, I have to finish my analysis on viral replication rates.” Julian angrily takes another swig.

Garak has never been any good at comforting. Julian relied on Chief O’Brien for that, or Dax. But it’s Garak who is here right now. So he eases himself onto the floor ( _these trousers will never be clean again, anyway_ ) and holds out his hand.

“I hope you left enough to share,” he says, and the reprimand in his tone surprises even him.

Wordlessly, Julian hands it over. Garak drinks slowly, swishing the viscous beverage around his mouth after he’s lowered the bottle from his lips. Not Quark’s finest vintage, but right now no one can afford to be picky.

Humans have a lower tolerance than Cardassians. Just how intoxicated is Julian?

“I owe you an apology. You were right. I was avoiding you.”

Drunk to the point of honesty, apparently. That means maudlin sentiment on the horizon. Garak takes a small sip. He doesn’t want to drink right now, but he does not want to give the bottle back to Julian. Sufficient damage has already been done.

“You’re helping cure a plague, Doctor. That’s apology enough.”

Julian exhales a puff of breath. Is it a laugh or a sigh?

“I’m doing that for Cardassia. I want to say ‘I’m sorry’ to _you_.” Garak opens his mouth to argue with the distinction, but Julian continues. “I’m sorry for coming to your door in the middle of the night and demanding that you smuggle contraband. I’m sorry for hitting you.”

Garak never truly apologized for what he did when his implant malfunctioned. Better to forget his weakness. Easier to pretend.

“Very well. You are forgiven.”

“That’s it? You’re not even going to ask why?”

Interrogating is the wrong thing. Pretending everything is fine is the wrong thing. What’s left to do?

“Do you want me to ask?”

“I owe you an explanation. And Ezri said…” Julian shakes his head and holds out his hand for the bottle. Garak hands it over and watches the muscles work in Julian’s throat as he swallows. “Well, she said a lot of things, but I think she was right that I need to talk to someone about it. Do you remember when I told you that I forgave you, for whatever you did?”

“Yes.”

Garak remembers that he thought he was going to die without ever reconciling with his homeland, or with Tain. He needed to know that somebody forgave him.

He takes back the bottle and drinks deeper this time. He isn’t sure he’ll be able to make it through this conversation without some kind of shield.

“It wasn’t as easy as I thought. Things kept getting more complicated, more… Forgiving you got harder to do. When you tried to kill the founders, what happened on Empok Nor- and don’t think I didn’t notice that you and Sisko were spending an awful lot of time together right when he started asking me for restricted substances.”

Garak clenches his jaw, remembering the impact of Sisko’s fists. Everyone wants to win, but no one wants to do the dirty work.

“How difficult it must have been for you. I apologize for causing you so much distress.”

“Look, you were right. Sometimes I am too idealistic and I don’t think, but with you around, nothing is straightforward.”

Is that the real problem? That Garak represents a reality Julian can’t bear to admit exists?

No one forced Julian to come to Cardassia. Garak never asked for an apology.

“You needn’t have me around if you don’t want to, Doctor.”

“This isn’t coming out how I meant. I just…” Julian draws his knees up to his chest and buries his face with a groan. “You know, I used to have a fantasy of you interrogating me.”

Garak can only blink.

“What?”

“That I had some kind of information you wanted and so you cornered me in your shop and pinned me down and…” The rest of the sentence trails off into mumbling.

Maybe the issue is the translation. Maybe by ‘fantasy’ Julian really meant it was something he feared would come to pass?

“You’ll have to be a little louder, Doctor. Cardassian hearing isn’t as keen as humans’.”

Julian’s face emerges, surprisingly red.

“We’d have sex,” he finishes grimly.

Garak looks at the bottle of kanar with new eyes. Did Quark dose it with something? Is he hallucinating? Did the dust storm knock something loose in his universal translator?

“You used to fantasize that I’d rape you?”

“It wasn’t rape, in my…” Julian breaks off and squeezes his arms more tightly around his legs. “Like I said, I don’t think. I wanted you and I was fascinated by you and I thought- anyways. It doesn’t matter.”

There is no quick and easy way to process this information. Julian wanted Garak to seduce him- but as an agent, not a romantic partner?

“Is that why you started avoiding me?” Garak asks, trying to make sense of it all.

“God, no! I started avoiding you when I realized what an interrogation would actually be like. He took a page out of your book, you know. Appeared in my room in the middle of the night. Said that I’m a man who loves secrets.”

Garak’s head is spinning, and another swallow of kanar offers no help.

“Who did?”

“Sloan. I guess I should start at the beginning.”

“That would be wise.”

Julian leans his back against the nearest wall and stretches his legs out again. If he’s seeking a comfortable position, he’ll be hard-pressed to find one on the floor of this shack.

This is going to be a long night.

“I was supposed to be going to a medical conference. A year ago. But instead I was kidnapped, and put into a simulation, although I didn’t know it at the time. I thought it was all very real. They made sure I was hungry and exhausted and isolated. They were convinced that I was a Dominion spy, that I’d been recruited in the internment camp and was suppressing the memories of it. Garak, it was terrifying. Nobody would believe me, I couldn’t trust anyone. They finally pulled me out of it when I realized it was fake. That’s when Sloan introduced himself to me. He was the head of Section 31. Do you know what that is?”

The humanoid inhabitants of Regulus II have enough physical control to send their bodies in stasis for up to 72 hours, ceasing to respond to any external stimuli.

Garak fervently wishes he had that ability, if only to avoid this conversation.

“It doesn’t sound familiar.”

“Are you lying?”

“If I were, Doctor, at least do me the courtesy of assuming I would be lying for a reason. Some information is dangerous to have, you know.”

Julian scans Garak’s face, as if he can find the truth just from looking hard enough. It’s unclear if he finds it.

“They’re a secret rogue agency, that claims to protect the interests of the Federation. The government won’t acknowledge them, but it won’t disavow them either. And any investigation into them just seems to fall by the wayside.”

“How convenient.”

“Odo compared them to the Tal’Shiar. Or the Obsidian Order.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

It’s not a perfect comparison. For one thing, the Central Command would readily remind their citizens that the Order existed. But Garak can tell where this line of questioning is going.

“The Obsidian Order did identify and eliminate traitors.”

Julian leans in.

“Would you have done something like what they did to me?” His breath is sour with alcohol.

 _Would you have hurt me_ , is the underlying question. _Of course_ , is the unfortunate answer.

Garak considers deflecting, denying, redirecting. No one stands to gain anything from this. Julian won’t be happier for knowing, or for having made Garak admit it.

Garak imagines Kelas Parmak’s eyes watching him from across the room. _Well, Garak? Are you going to confess?_

“If I were ordered to, yes.”

Julian is the first one to look away. He looks down at the bottle, and Garak follows his gaze.

There are things Garak should say, about how he broke down when he had to torture Odo, how he disappointed Tain, how he has changed. _I would have then, but not now. I’m different now_.

Instead, it’s Julian who breaks the silence.

“That was the first time. The second time, Sloan showed up in my quarters right before I went to Romulus. Just like you did, when we were investigating the Cardassian war orphans. Until I turned on the lights, I thought it _was_ you.”

Garak winces.

“Did he kidnap you again?”

“No. He didn’t have to.” Julian wraps a hand around the neck of the bottle and holds it up, as if examining the contents. “After the first time, he told me that he would be in touch. He was trying to recruit me, to join their organization. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. And Sisko told me that when they reached out again, I should play along, so we could try and get more information, to take them down.”

Garak takes note. Sisko ordered Bashir to do the dirty work.

“So he gave you a mission, and you agreed.”

“You told me Starfleet Intelligence should send someone to Romulus.” Julian still isn’t looking at Garak, but there’s something in his voice that sounds too close to blame. “Sloan thought the same thing as you. He wanted me to spy. I had to figure out whether or not the head of the Tal’Shiar was ill, and how long it would take him to die. I thought Sloan was going to assassinate him, which goes against the Prime Directive, and so I talked to Ross, but then Ross had an aneurysm-”

“Admiral Ross?” Garak interrupts.

“Yes. The timing of it was very _convenient_.” Julian hits his consonants with poisonous precision. He’s sobering up, and he’s still angry. “I had no one to turn to but Senator Cretak. I told her what was going on and that I thought Sloan was working with a Romulan insider. That’s when the Tal’Shiar got suspicious.”

Garak remembers their last conversation on the station, the remark that made Julian jump as if shot. _Is that what you said when they tortured you?_

“Did they use the mind probe?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“Yes. It wasn’t effective, apparently, courtesy of genetic engineering. But it hurt like hell.” Julian presses the bottle to his lips and leans his neck back. It looks disturbingly less like taking a drink and more like an attempt to drown. Garak feels a quiet sense of relief when Julian finally swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “It all went wrong, Garak. I didn’t realize that Koval- he was the one who used the mind scanner- he was actually working with Sloan. Ross was in on it too. They used me to implicate Cretak, so the Praetor would think she was committing treason.”

Senator Cretak never returned to DS9, and her absence was never formally acknowledged by the senior staff. You didn’t have to be a Romulan to read between the lines.

Julian’s face is hard with hate, and Garak has a sinking feeling he knows at whom the anger is truly directed. A grudge against one’s self is the worst kind to hold.

“You didn’t kill her, Doctor.” Garak is quiet, placating.

Something inside Julian explodes. He slams the bottle to the ground and bursts into motion, pacing towards the opposite wall.

“I might as well have! They manipulated me. They knew that I would tell her, because I’m a ‘man of principle.’ But if I hadn’t tried to do the right thing, she would still be alive.” Julian spins on his heel, marching back the way he came. “It’s all wrong, Garak, all of it. For years I’ve been defending the Federation, believing in everything it claims to stand for. But it’s all lies. Starfleet will ignore our highest laws when it’s convenient for them.”

Julian stops and throws his hands up in the air. Garak reaches for the right words.

“We were in the middle of a war, Doctor.”

“That shouldn’t matter!” Julian slams his arms down to his sides, fists clenching in frustration. “In times of war, the law should _not_ fall silent. And I can’t respect an admiral who says otherwise.”

For a moment, Garak wonders if the doctor is going to hit something. His shoulders rise and fall with heavy, rapid breaths.

When he next speaks, Julian’s voice is tight.

“I wanted to throw the Agent Bashir program out the airlock. I sold my James Bond novels to Quark. You were right, Garak. I don’t want to be a spy.”

It all makes sense now. Julian liked Garak for the fantasy that Garak represented, but now the dream of Agent Bashir has been corrupted into dark reality. He’s realized that real spies don’t spend their time having thrilling sex, they assassinate allies instead.

“And you don’t want to be friends with an interrogator,” Garak finishes the narrative.

“Haven’t you been listening? Of course I didn’t want to be _friends_ with you, I wanted you to fuck me senseless! But that means they’re right about me, doesn’t it? I’m obsessed with secrets. I mean, that’s what you are, a walking vault of secrets and lies. God, you’ve tortured people, Garak! You were just like them. If you hadn’t been exiled, would you have been any different?”

Garak has always appreciated Julian’s intelligence, the speed at which his mind moves. But now Garak is breathless trying to keep up, as his affection, lust, self-loathing, and guilt all race to the forefront of his mind.

If he hadn’t been exiled, who would he have become? A second Enabran Tain? Someone who could never be forgiven?

“And that’s not even the worst part,” Julian continues. “Do you know what I did with the devices you gave me?”

Not exactly, but Garak can make an educated guess.

“You used them on Sloan, I assume.”

“I told Starfleet I’d found a cure for the disease, to lure him to the station. When he broke into my quarters, he was trapped in a containment field Miles rigged. We tried to get the cure out of him, and he tried to commit suicide. He was that set on watching all the Founders die.”

Garak once tried to eliminate the changelings, risking his own life in the process, as well as those of Worf, Odo, Sisko, and Bashir. Tain all but died trying. Is it really so difficult to imagine that one man would give his life for the destruction of his enemy?

“I suppose a reminder that we were at war would not be welcome,” Garak says, perhaps with less sympathy than he ought.

Julian’s eyes are ablaze.

“No, it damn well would not. I went inside his brain, Garak. Literally into his mind! And I almost got Miles and myself and Odo all killed because I was so obsessed with figuring out his secrets that I very nearly didn’t get back out in time. I tortured him and he died, and I am just as bad as he is!”

 _Just as bad as I am_ , Garak thinks.

“You did what you had to do.” He can hear how hollow the words sound. Would Julian listen to him, if he explained that it was for Cardassia?

“That’s the same kind of excuse Sloan would make. Who says what has to be done? Was his life worth more than Odo’s?”

_What is any life worth?_

“You saved more than just Odo. You helped his entire species. You helped end the war.”

The Founder on Cardassia would never have given the order to withdraw her troops without Odo’s intervention. How can Julian not see that?

“I did the same thing to Sloan that Koval tried to do to me. Worse, in fact. And we all think we’re doing the right thing and we’re all wrong!”

Julian is standing too close now. Garak can taste the sharpness of his scent, the potent mix of kanar, sweat, righteous fury, and recrimination.

The human is waking up for the first time to the world that Garak has always lived in.

The room feels smaller than it did a second before, and Garak’s breath hitches in his throat. He digs his nails into his palms to steady himself.

“I see.”

“Is that all you can say?”

The roof is beginning to loom closer. Garak forces himself to stand slowly, deliberately. _Inhale. Exale._

 _This is the way_ _it_ _is, Doctor. Now step back_.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. Something. Anything!”

 _Too close, too close, too close_.

Garak matches Julian’s heat with ice.

“The world has never been black and white, Doctor. Your dear Captain Sisko planted false evidence to draw the Romulans into the war. Colonel Kira instructed us to shoot any Cardassian who wasn’t on our side, but she was sleeping with a former collaborator. It’s messy and complicated and _you are going to have to learn how to live with it_. Kira sleeps at night because she has religion. Maybe you should go have- what do they call it- an orb experience?”

Julian’s face and voice are stone.

“The Prophets won’t make me forget what I’ve done.”

“Nothing will. As I said, you will have to learn to live with it.”

Garak hasn’t cried since he was a child. It was one of the first lessons he learned. Crying attracts attention. Never draw attention to your weakness.

He is alarmed to see the tears that are beginning to gather in Julian’s eyes.

“What if I can’t?”

Garak knows how to break someone. He doesn’t know how to put them back together.

“You’re asking the wrong Cardassian.”

“I don’t think so. You’ve done things you’re not proud of. How do you manage?”

The smile is too wide, too sharp, but it’s the only one Garak can find.

“Isn’t it obvious, my dear? I rely on you to forgive me.”


	16. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian learns more about Parmak, and himself.

Julian has grown accustomed to conducting experiments with the help of a robust user interface. He could command, “Computer, run trial Bashir Alpha and alert me when completed,” and then go get a cup of raiktajino and bother whoever was on duty in Ops.

In the wake of the Dominion, Cardassian hospitals have no such luxuries. He relies on his own senses as he monitors samples and puzzles through complex equations, trying to figure out what will inhibit the virus’s development in the host body.

So far, not much.

“Are you alright, Dr. Bashir?” Parmak’s kind voice draws Julian out of the world inside his own head.

“I’m fine. Just a little tired, that’s all.” And he is. Tired, but also fine. Ever since he was fifteen, Julian has pushed every aspect of his genetic enhancements, trying to find the limits. He knows he can get by on less sleep than the average human.

“I can understand. Garak’s home isn’t as comfortable as your space station, I imagine.”

Thinking about Deep Space 9 means thinking about Ezri. At the moment, Julian would rather think about anything else, even Garak, even the warmth with which Dr. Parmak says that name.

“How well do you know Garak?” Julian asks before he has time to think better of the question.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you know what he was, before…” This is a bad idea. It’s Garak’s secret to keep or to tell. What kind of person would Julian be if he destroyed the new life that Garak is trying to build here?

Parmak’s answer takes Julian by surprise.

“I know that he was a member of the Obsidian Order, if that’s what you mean. That’s how we first met.”

Kelas Parmak is a wiry, middle-aged man with a gentle smile and soft-spoken manner. He is affable in a way that Garak and Tain could never manage: non-threatening and sincere.

Is it all an act?

“You were an agent too?” Julian tries not to sound as dumbfounded as he feels.

Parmak chuckles.

“By the union, no. He interrogated me.”

“What?!”

“I was involved in a political dissident movement at the time. It was Garak’s job to get me to confess.”

Parmak explains it with the same bland tone one might discuss the weather.

Julian still doesn’t know the exact details, but he has a pretty good idea what kind of tactics Garak would have used to get a confession. It doesn’t make sense.

“How could you be friends with someone who tortured you?”

“He never laid a finger on me.”

In the Dominion camp, Julian spent five days in isolation. He had felt himself unraveling by the end of it, starved for any kind of interaction, however brutal.

“You don’t have to touch someone for it to be torture.”

Parmak busies himself with peering into the containment unit and taking tidy notes on viral density. Julian knows he should join, but he can only sit, stupefied.

“I suppose there are two reasons,” Parmak says thoughtfully. “You won’t like the first one, from what I know about your culture.”

“Try me.”

“I know that he and I were both only doing what we thought was best for Cardassia.”

It sounds like a line from _The Never-Ending Sacrifice_. Julian grits his teeth.

“Intentions don’t excuse impact,” he retorts.

“No, but they matter all the same.” Parmak’s voice is calm, but firm. “We were all raised to give our lives for the state. Garak gave his soul as well.”

Julian wonders if that translated correctly. Is it a biological concept, or a religious one? As far as he knows, the Central Command had been vehemently anti-theist.

“I didn’t think Cardassians believed in the soul.”

“We aren’t a monolith, Dr. Bashir. You may be surprised to find what some Cardassians believe.”

Evidently, the military wasn’t aas successful in stamping out differing practices as they had believed. Julian tucks this information away for the future. He wonders if Garak… The thought dissipates. After their last conversation, Julian can’t imagine asking about Cardassian culture as if nothing has changed between them.

“You said you had two reasons,” he reminds Parmak.

“Ah, yes. Do you know, when I first met him again, I couldn’t look him in the eye? All I could think about was that interrogation chamber, and the three years I spent in a labor camp. I couldn’t understand why everyone else was so calm, when surely it was obvious what he was. It was only when I finally looked at him that I understood.”

“What did you understand?”

“That whoever Garak had been, he wasn’t anymore. He had changed. People have a habit of doing that, even when we least expect it.”

Julian still remembers, with acute embarrassment, his first conversation with Kira. _This is where heroes are made_ , he had said.

He is now a decorated war veteran, and Julian has never felt less like a hero.

“Not everyone changes for the better,” he mutters.

“Perhaps not,” Parmak acknowledges with a tilt of his head. “But everyone can try to.”

Julian tries to hold on to this, let it soak into his bones.

“And… you don’t think Garak is trying to rebuild the Obsidian Order?”

Parmak laughs.

“Dr. Bashir, he’ll have to rebuild the rest of Cardassia first.”

Julian arrives at Garak’s to find the building empty, and a blinking green light on his PADD.

_Dear Doctor,_

_I hope you will excuse my use of your device (although if I may say so, you should consider better security protocols in the future). I flatter myself that I am usually quite good with words, but I believe I did not express myself as well last night as I could have._

_If I am not mistaken, you have saved millions of lives in your time at Starfleet, including:_

  * _Sisko, whose brain surgery not only saved his own life but also spared the rest of us from having to endure more of his visions_

  * _Our charismatic friends Mister Worf and Chancellor Martok, after their rounds of combat in Camp 371_

  * _Kirayoshi O’Brien, who would not have survived the runabout accident without you_

  * _Dax, when you reconnected her with the symbiont despite separation typically meaning death (and I think we should count that as eight lives, rather than one)_

  * _Odo, and by extension his people, even if you aren’t proud of the methods used_

  * _O’Brien, when you figured out how to send the distress signal from T’Lani Prime (you are welcome to speculate how I know about this)_

  * _Kira, and many of the aforementioned, when you refused to let me risk their stored patterns during our time in the holosuite_

  * _The inhabitants of Boranis III (did you really cure their plague in just three days?)_

  * _Those treated at the Federation hospital on Ajilon Prime during your time there (although I will allow that young Sisko may have exaggerated in his article on the subject)_

  * _Every Teplan born without the so-called “Quickening” since the introduction of your vaccine_

  * _Countless possible future lives, due to your research in neuromuscular adaptation, immunotherapy, and biomolecular replication, which I have been led to believe is “innovative” and “ground-breaking”_

  * _My own, although you’ll forgive me for not wanting to relive the details_




_Yes, you have killed, including Sloan, Jem’Hadar, and others. As I said, people are complicated. But ask yourself this, my dear: Have you ever wanted to hurt someone?_

_When you learn that someone is suffering, even an enemy, your first instinct is to heal. I think that says everything._

_You’ll forgive me for not giving you this message in person. I believe I’ve used up all my honesty for the next year or so, and I need to go tell several outrageous lies to make up for it._

_-Garak_


	17. Semantics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian starts to learn Cardassian. Garak starts to learn that implication is not always a viable communication strategy.

“You’re joking.” Julian shakes his head in disbelief.

Garak looks affronted.

“Why would I joke about the number of tenses in Cardassian?”

“Because it’s absurd.”

“It’s a highly nuanced language, Doctor.”

In the week since their rather dramatic last conversation, Garak has done his best to give Julian space. It is clear that the presence of his past causes Julian no small amount of pain, so he has tried not to force any reminders. He finds reasons to be out of the house, and when he cannot be, he is pleasant and polite and strictly platonic.

It would be nice, of course, if circumstances were different. But they aren’t.

Julian still looks doubtful, which is rich coming from someone whose mother tongue and professional language don’t even use the same alphabet.

“So if I were going to say, ‘I’m sorry for what I said.’ Is that past-to-present-ongoing, past-recent, past-intermediate, or past-indeterminate? What tense would you tell me to use?”

“I would tell you to apologize less.”

There are plenty of things Garak is sorry for. He’s sorry that he couldn’t save Ziyal or Mila. He’s sorry that he didn’t realize how Julian felt until it was very much too late. He’s sorry he wasted years of his life trying to wring affection and approval from a man who would never give it.

Feeling sorry doesn’t change things.

And if the last one is anything to go by, Garak simply doesn’t have the emotional fortitude to withstand another of Julian’s apologies.

“Fine. We can start with something easier.” Julian’s lips quirk. Almost a smile, although a smaller one than Garak remembers. “How do you say ‘thank you’?”

“ _T_ _uressin_.”

“ _Turessin_ for your letter, Garak.”

Garak likes to talk, and ordinarily it’s something at which he considers himself highly skilled. Talking about feelings, however, is something entirely different.

Inside, he vibrates with want. _I want to help. I want to learn how to comfort. I want to make you smile. I want to be something different than I was, than we were._

Outside, he remains still, collected, plain-and-simple.

“ _N_ _u perrik’I_. It is my duty. In Federation Standard, you’re welcome.”

Julian scratches the back of his neck.

“What about ‘I forgive you’?”

He certainly is nothing if not persistent.

“You could stand to say that one less, Doctor.”

Garak recalls Julian’s words with clarity. _Forgiving you got harder to do._ No need to add more to the burden.

“I remember what you said, about how you cope by relying on me to forgive you, and I-”

“We don’t need to talk about this.”

In Garak’s mind, conversations about emotions are inextricably linked to the threat of death: the implant, the internment camp, the defeat of the rebellion. Outside of such extreme moments, feelings are to be put to work when useful and ignored when not.

Obviously, Julian does not agree.

“I want to,” he insists stubbornly.

“But it isn’t necessary.” Garak can hear the intensity in his voice, and pulls back, adopting a looser posture and a lighter tone. Nothing to see here, nothing to regret, nothing to forgive. “Besides, Parmak has happily taken on that role.”

This does not produce the reaction he hoped for. Julian’s forehead blooms with lines. (Such an expressive, human face.)

“What about when you run out of doctors you’ve hurt who are willing to forgive you? How will you face yourself then?”

The offensive strike comes so suddenly that it takes Garak by surprise. Julian seems to know about Parmak. How? No one does. Odo, possibly- and if Odo, then the whole Great Link, but now is not the time to contemplate that- and Tain, but Tain is dead, as Garak continually reminds himself.

Someone at the hospital, then.

Parmak himself?

Julian knew already that Garak worked for the Obsidian Order, that Garak has interrogated, that Garak is a liar and a spy. Technically, he’s acquired no new information, only a face and a name for a victim.

So why does Garak feel so afraid?

What _will_ he do then?

“I’ll have to figure out something else, won’t I?” He opts for a broad, bland defense.

“Maybe you should have an orb experience.”

No one likes to have their words thrown back in their face. Garak is no exception.

“You know how Bajorans feel about Cardassians. They’d assume I was trying to steal it.”

_We don’t all have the same options, Doctor._

“I wouldn’t blame them. After all, eight of the orbs _were_ stolen.”

“And then returned.”

“Only after the Federation got involved.”

This is why Garak doesn’t believe in truth. Even indisputable facts change, depending on who is interpreting them. Chronology reveals nothing about correlation or cause.

“Yes, the benevolent Federation, so helpful, always looking out for the interests of others. One wonders what they get in return.”

“The Federation was founded to promote peace and prosperity between…”

The shift in the room is as palpable as a cold wind coming in from the outside. Julian looks pale.

The silence speaks. It whispers of Section 31 and the lack of aid to Cardassia and disillusionment and broken promises.

Garak holds the space between them carefully, a delicate thing that could shatter at any moment. Is this the right time to… talk about it? To ask a question?

Who knows? Garak opts for discretion instead of risk and does what he does best: evades.

“Of course, that’s all in the past. Past-intermediate, if we’re referring to seven years ago. It becomes past-long-ago once the events are at least fifty years prior.” He airily slips back into the role of linguistics tutor, as if he cannot feel the chill in the air.

“So back when you were born, then.”

It’s a weak attempt, to go back to their old game, the familiar back-and-forth. Garak grasps it like a lifeline.

“Perhaps it was. I don’t remember the event, myself. Now, we haven’t yet addressed the future tenses. There are actually twenty-six of them.”

That earns him a sincere groan.

“Please tell me you’re lying.”

He is, shamelessly. It’s a poor attempt, since it will be undone as soon as Julian asks another Cardassian, but Garak has never let an opportunity for a good story pass him by.

“It’s actually in reverence to the twenty-six founders of the Cardassian Union, if you remember your history.”

It’s all nonsense, but nothing is safer than a world you build for yourself.

“You’re making this up. You must be.”

“Are you sure?” Garak is quite prepared to invent an entire language, if necessary. Anything to stay where it is friendly and warm. “I’ll give you an example of a future tense construction. When do you plan to leave Cardassia?”

“When the plague is cured,” Julian replies promptly.

It’s already taken longer than Boranis III ( _three days? really, Doctor?)_ , but Garak doesn’t bring that up.

“That’s future-indeterminate. And quite kind of Starfleet. Although I’d say I’m the most affected party here, since you are in my home.”

He is trying to prick Julian into a spirited response, but he has missed the mark. That human face is pinched and worried.

“I can try to find another place, if it’s too much trouble having me.”

Self-loathing is dangerous, but self-pity is not much better. Anger can at least feed you. (After all, it’s been fueling Kira for decades.) Guilt, and doubt, do not.

“You mistake me, Doctor.You are welcome to stay as long as you need.” Garak’s mouth burns with the aftertaste of the truth, with biting down on the _want_ ( _I want you to stay_ ). He sweetens it with a lie. “That way, I can always eat you if we run out of rations. Cardassians are carnivorous, you know.”

“Garak, if I ask you a question, will you answer it honestly?”

 _No_.

“Of course. What makes you think I wouldn't?”

Julian rolls his eyes. That, at least, is reliable and familiar.

“For one, Siana is now convinced that human sweat contains a toxic compound lethal to Cardassians.”

“Is she? How unusual. I hope you were able to prove otherwise. You certainly produce enough of it.”

Every word of Garak’s letter had been true, including that he felt compelled to indulge in some inventive lying afterwards to even the balance.

“Damn!” Julian stands abruptly. “Sweat. You reminded me, I didn’t drink my electrolyte supplement yet.”

“Really, what kind of doctor are you?” Garak admonishes fondly as Julian goes to rummage in his bag. One would think the heat would be sufficient reminder.

“A tired one.” Julian proves the point with a yawn.

Garak can feel the truth on his teeth, chews it a moment before succumbing.

“I meant what I said. You can rest here for as long as you need.” _I want you to stay_. “It will take you quite a while, to learn all seventy-three forms of future tense.”

“I thought you said there were twenty-six.”

Garak smiles.

“I lied.”

Once, that would have earned him a laugh, or an affectionately frustrated shake of the head. Instead, Julian just looks tired.

Garak is learning new things about _wanting_. For every thing you do want, there are twice as many that you don't.

_I want you to forgive me._ _I don't want you to see Sloan every time you look in my eyes. I don't want to be another weapon you wield in the war on yourself._

_I want you to stay._ _I don't want to watch you break. I don't know how to help you heal._

It's all impossible to say. What else is there to do but lie?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cardassian comes from Tinsnip and Vyc and the magnificent dictionary they've compiled (cardassianlanguage.tumblr.com)


	18. New Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you love someone in spite of their flaws, or because of them?  
> Or, Julian continues to feel flustered and guilty.

Cardassia isn’t inhospitable to humans. It’s hot, certainly, but not hotter than some locations on earth. Julian knows his body will adapt to it, given time.

That doesn’t make the transition any more pleasant. His skin is sticky and prickly with sweat, and he can feel each drop sliding down his spine.

On one hand, it’s very clear that Cardassian modesty standards must be followed. On the other hand, Garak won’t be back for another hour or two, and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

On one hand, if someone were to come from Section 31, Julian is unprotected enough without shedding clothing. On the other hand, if someone wants to kill him, a shirt probably wouldn’t stop them, and this sounds so much like a train of thought Garak might have that Julian decides to end it immediately.

Everything is fine. He’s being paranoid.

He impatiently yanks his shirt over his head, crumples it into a ball, and tosses it in a corner. When that fails to make him feel immediately cooler, Julian closes his eyes and tries to take deep breaths.

During periods of calm, he has a certain degree of control over his vital signs, but he can’t lower his temperature while feeling so tense. There are so many things he should be doing, like responding to Ezri’s letter ( _don’t think about Ezri_ ), Kasidy’s message that she’s been put on bedrest and he’ll need to make return arrangements with someone else ( _don’t think about going back_ ), or Parmak’s note that the outbreak on the Gorn homeworld isn’t as similar as they thought ( _don’t think about failure_ ).

He is so busy not thinking that he might have missed Garak’s entrance, if not for the gasp of laughter that accompanies it.

“My dear doctor, is this display for my benefit?”

Julian’s face burns, and he scrambles across the room for the discarded garment. It’s not just the embarrassment of being surprised in what a Cardassian would consider an unforgivably scandalous state, but also the mortification of his own admission coming back to bite him in the ass: _I wanted you to fuck me senseless_. Of all the humiliating things to admit to a friend while drunk… Is Garak remembering that now?

“You- you weren’t supposed to be back yet,” he sputters.

And really, it’s not that he hasn’t thought about Garak surprising him half-dressed and what might come next, but so far all of his fantasies have proven-

Julian clamps down on that thought as well. _Don’t think about S_ _loan_.

Garak is still laughing.

“If I had known what was waiting for me, I would have left even earlier.” _To tease you mercilessly_ , is the implication Julian reads at the end of that sentence. “These meetings are beginning to try my patience.”

Julian huffily pulls on his shirt and does not look at Garak. He seizes on to the opportunity to redirect the conversation.

“Are the people not returning to totalitarianism quickly enough for you?”

“I will admit that I have never been overly fond of Central Command, but at least they tried for a sense of order.”

“Democracy is messy, Garak.”

“Messy is a very un-Cardassian form of government,” Garak harrumphs.

Julian suppresses a grin that he suspects would come across as insensitive. Any form of government that allowed Dukat to rise to the top, multiple times, was already messy.

“It will take time. But things will get better, especially if aid comes in.”

“Please, Doctor, don’t subject me to your insuf-”

“If you say _Federation optimism_ , I’m going to throw something at your head,” Julian interrupts fiercely.

The remark surprises them both, and an uncertain pause takes root. Julian clears his throat to stall, struggling for words to express the emotions he barely understands himself. He doesn’t feel particularly optimistic, not when he’s been sitting around gloomily contemplating possible assassination attempts. If there is any glimmer of hope still inside him, there’s nothing traditionally Federation about it.

And why does Garak see optimism as so personally offensive, anyway?

“I don’t see what’s so bad about wanting the world to be a place you can stand living in,” Julian attempts to explain.

Predictably, Garak has a riposte at the ready.

“You’ll be disappointed when it isn’t.”

Is that Julian’s problem? That he’s been too optimistic, too naive? Would this all hurt less if he hadn’t expected the world to be better?

Losing Ezri stings, in a way that makes him feel lonely and bitter and older than he really is, but he also remembers the cool touch of her skin and the warmth of her breath, the reminder that something good could exist at what seemed like the end of everything.

He thinks about darts and the Battle of Britain and the Alamo and Miles’ grumpy affection. Would he give up those memories, if it meant not feeling the absence of the O’Briens quite as keenly?

“Has expecting the worst saved you from being disappointed?” he asks.

Garak’s eyes narrow. Julian swallows hard, pierced by a sudden vision of Garak begging at Tain’s deathbed. Maybe it wasn’t a fair question.

“As always, you have a very human perspective,” Garak says, which is a cop-out and a lazy one at that.

“What about Dr. Parmak?” Julian counters. “You can’t blame him on the Federation. He forgave you because he believes that people can change for the better. Isn’t that optimism?”

A second too late, Julian remembers that perhaps Garak wouldn’t want him to know about the past with Parmak.

Time and war and getting older have changed so many things about Julian. Why couldn’t always putting his foot in his mouth have been one of them?

“I wasn’t aware you two have been discussing me,” Garak observes coolly.

There’s no point in lying, which rules out denial and claiming _only good things_.

Julian shrugs awkwardly.

“Only once, really,” he says, which is true but doesn’t particularly improve the situation.

Garak gives a wintry smile.

“Parmak didn’t have a choice.”

Parmak wouldn’t say he forgave Garak just because Garak threatened him… right? He had certainly seemed sincere.

“What do you mean?”

“He couldn’t avoid me forever, Doctor. For us to live in the city together, he had to either forgive me or denounce me.”

Not a threat, then, thank goodness.

“That is a choice,” Julian points out. Garak scoffs.

“He wasn’t made for denouncing.”

“Why? Because he’s too… _optimistic_?”

Garak looks pained, which is an improvement over looking icy.

“I don’t suppose you considered that Parmak might have lied. Perhaps he says he’s forgiven me, but is really planning to kill me.”

“He hardly seems like the assassin type.”

“One never can tell.”

“Not everyone is like you, Garak.”

“‘A vault of secrets and lies,’ you mean?”

Ouch. Caught up in the rush of banter, Julian had managed to forget for a moment that the ground between them is still shaky.

Curse every stupid thing that came out of his mouth while drunk. He can’t lose Garak too.

“When I said that, I didn’t-”

“You don’t need to explain. It was the kanar talking. Why, I remember Iloja of Prim once saying to me that kanar makes every writer a poet and every man a liar.”

Julian has learned a few things about Garak in the past few years. When he is eloquent, theatrical, and ingratiating, he is definitely lying.

It’s one thing to refuse to talk about what happened. It’s another to bring it up and then still deliberately avoid the conversation.

“You never met Iloja of Prim,” Julian says flatly. If Garak sees his irritation, it doesn’t make a difference.

“Didn’t I tell you? I was displaced by a temporal anomaly when the Q entity visited the station.”

It’s not that Julian particularly _wants_ to relive all the things he regrets saying, but they have to address them at some point. Don’t they?

He sighs.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

Garak tilts his head to the side and blinks innocently.

“Travel through time?”

“Lie.”

Another wide-eyed blink.

“Oh? Does it bother you?”

That’s the crux of the problem right there. It bothers Julian when the lies get in the way of a conversation that they should probably be having, which is more often than not, these days. He doesn’t like the way it makes him mistrust things that would otherwise seem sincere, like affection and apologies.

And yet…

Just as often, he _enjoys_ the lie, and isn’t that terrifying? Of course he shouldn’t like it when someone lies to him! That isn’t normal. It just shows that Sloan was right, and he’s obsessed with secrets. Or that genetic engineering does activate some sort of latent tendency towards deceit, just like everyone fears.

“Not as much as it should,” Julian mutters. He doesn’t say what he’s really thinking: _There is something wrong with me_.

He sits in a chair, slumped and defeated. The shack was either built or repaired by Garak (Julian isn’t entirely sure, and Garak isn’t entirely forthcoming), but most of the furniture is scavenged. This particular chair has deep scars running along the side, perfect for running your fingers over and getting splinters when you feel miserable and inadequate.

Julian can hear Garak step closer, then hesitate. He waits for the inevitable lie.

“Did you enjoy covering up your augmentations?”

Startled, he looks up. Garak’s face is serious.

Julian shakes his head.

“Did you delight in keeping a secret from your friends? Did you feel an exciting thrill each time you were almost discovered?”

Now Julian understands. Garak is mocking him.

He would have preferred lying. Still, he grits his teeth and answers.

“No. I hated every minute of it.”

“Then Sloan was wrong about you, wasn’t he?”

Garak’s gaze is too penetrating for comfort, and Julian feels uneasily as if his mind has just been read.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?” Garak’s eyes could bore holes through duridium. “It’s extraordinary that you’d believe a man you’ve met twice over someone you’ve known for years.”

Someone that he’s known _of_ for years, certainly, but for how much of that time has he really known anything about Garak? How many of those years have been spent on lies?

“At least he admitted to being an intelligence agent.”

Garak sniffs.

“That only shows he wasn’t any good at it.”

Just when Julian thinks he finally has Garak figured out, the man inevitably manages to go and subvert his expectations.

Sloan’s voice resonates in the back of his mind. _You’re a man who loves secrets._

If Sloan is wrong about him, then what keeps drawing him to Garak?

“You said everything is messy and complicated,” Julian recalls. “But you make it all seem so… straightforward.”

Garak spreads his hands expansively.

“One of the many ways in which _I_ am complicated.” He sounds as if Julian has just paid him a compliment, even though a few months ago he would have treated the same words as an insult. “We aren’t all defined by our worst actions, Doctor.”

Is this sign of a change for the better, like Parmak said?

Julian tries to repay the favor, and offer Garak similar comfort.

“The same is true for you, you know. Did you love torturing people?”

But _shit, damn, bollocks_ , that was the wrong thing to say, because Garak locks in place like a toy soldier, expression guarded.

“I don’t think you want to know the answer to that, Doctor.”

 _No, you’re right, I don’t, I really don’t_. Julian really wants to become an ostrich he once saw in a documentary holovid and stick his head in the sand until Garak goes away. But he is limited by human anatomy.

There must be something wrong with him. Even if he doesn’t love secrets, he loves a man who enjoys torturing people.

Enjoyed. Enjoyed how long ago?

If Parmak is right ( _please let Parmak be right_ ), then Julian owes Garak some benefit of the doubt.

“I suppose a better question is, do you think you’d love it now?” He tries not to sound like he’ll immediately bolt out the door if Garak gives the wrong answer, although he’s strongly considering it.

To his credit (or against it? Julian isn’t sure anymore), Garak thinks the matter over for a few moments before exhaling slowly through his nose.

“No.”

It isn’t exaggerated. It isn’t long. It isn’t said as if for an audience.

That means it stands a good chance of being the truth.

Parmak was right. Whatever Garak has been, he is something different now.

Julian feels an urge to reach out and take Garak’s hand, which is obviously a terrible idea, so he refrains and tries to remember what they were talking about before. Parmak. Optimism. Systems of governance.

“Then it isn’t optimistic to say that you’ve changed. It’s realism. And if you can, others can too.” Julian can hear that his words sound cliched, but the look he gives Garak is earnest. “It is going to get better. Maybe you’ll even find you like democracy.”

Garak’s smile, against all odds, appears to be sincere.

“We’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In thinking about what optimism looks like during tough times, I was inspired by pyrrhic_victory's fic "A Small White Room". In particular, this quote: "...the world can be better than it is, and it will be, or it will have to answer to Julian Bashir."


	19. Monsters Under the Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian has stopped sleeping.

Julian has stopped sleeping. Garak hasn’t commented on it, because the response to such observations is variable, but he notices it all the same.

On the station, when Garak was hit by a bout of insomnia, he would read with a cup of tea, or take a stroll on the Promenade. Here, in a city of casualties, resources are limited. His home doesn’t have a replicator or a computer terminal, and the new Cardassia isn’t a safe place to walk around at night.

So he lies awake, listening to Julian’s breathing, thinking.

He doesn’t have fantasies, or at least none that he would admit to as readily as Julian did. On the station, he did think, once or twice, about Julian at his door, unable to sleep. Garak would read him Preloc until they argued, and then… Well. No use dwelling on what could have been.

Garak doesn’t have many memories of his childhood, which is probably for the best. The things he does remember are rarely good: the darkness of the closet, the curl of Tain’s lip in a smile that was really a sneer, Mila… The memories of Mila are sweet, but that makes them the most painful.

Once, when he was little, he had a nightmare. Too young to know that any fears should be kept secret, he went to Mila in tears. She rocked him, as if he were any other child, holding him close. _Shh, Elim. I’ll keep you safe_.

What a grand lie that was. Parents and children and friends and lovers all lying to each other, because the world will never be a safe place.

He hasn’t thought about that memory in years, but it resurfaces now, in the dark.

It gives him an idea.

Garak sits, and Julian is bolt upright in an instant.

“Garak?”

“Sorry to bother you, Doctor. I couldn’t sleep.”

Their bedrolls are laid out on the floor, space in between, but even a wide distance would feel intimate in this darkness.

“Have you tried counting sheep?”

Garak cocks his head at the unfamiliar word.

“What?” He is passable in Federation Standard (and a dozen other languages), but the quirks of colloquial expressions still escape him.

“It’s an old saying about an animal from Earth. You’re supposed to picture a line of sheep jumping over a fence and count each one.” Julian traces a finger in the air, demonstrating the arc. “Apparently it helps you sleep.”

Sometimes humans can be simply incomprehensible.

“Does that work?”

“No. But it’s a funny expression.”

“I see.” In fact, Garak is mystified, but he isn’t in the mood to admit it.

“Sometimes I can’t sleep when I’m thinking about a particular problem. My prion research kept me up quite a few nights.”

Aha! A possible explanation.

“Is the virus doing the same now?”

“Not exactly.” Julian shifts his weight slightly. There are too many shadows for Garak to read his expression properly. “I do keep thinking. Just not about that. What about you?”

“Hm?”

“What’s keeping you awake?”

Would Julian feel guilty if he knew that he was the answer to his own question?

“I’m a light sleeper,” Garak says, which is the truth, after a fashion.

“That’s a good thing, you know. It probably keeps you safe.”

It does, and that’s why he acquired the habit, but hearing his own cynicism in Julian’s mouth feels wrong.

“Oh? Are you planning something?”

Julian again shifts restlessly.

“Not from me. In general.”

 _In general_ is not an easy enemy to fight.

“Who do you think is going to attack us, Doctor?”

“Well, suppose Section 31 tries to.”

Garak refrains from making a smarmy remark about optimism. It isn’t the appropriate time.

On the station, he would have plenty of advice, ranging from a dampening field to prevent the use of transporters to simply a better lock on the front door. There are no such luxuries, here.

Garak knows that Julian can defend himself with a phaser, and also knows that he won’t want to be reminded of that. Julian doesn’t want to be put in a position where he will have to hurt or kill. Is that what he really fears, more than the prospect of an attempt on his life?

Garak thinks about Mila, and the kindest lie.

“I wouldn’t let them hurt you, Doctor.” It’s not quite a lie. Garak wouldn’t let them hurt Julian, if he had the ability to prevent it. Yet he knows he can’t promise to always have that ability.

Section 31 won’t go after Julian out of vengeance, of that Garak is certain. A man like Sloan was always going to die in the line of duty, and revenge makes for a messy operation. Taking out someone who knows too much, on the other hand, is a regular practice. Garak knows exactly how he would do it, too: a feigned terrorist attack on the return shuttle, followed by a flood of false sympathy. _Oh, if only Bashir hadn’t gone down to the planet so soon after the end of the war. Xenophobia runs deep in Cardassians, you know. Poor man, he only wanted to help._

They’ll keep Julian alive if they think he can still be useful, or if only Sloan knew about him. Could their organization be structured to allow for that possibility?

Julian’s reply breaks Garak’s reverie.

“I can’t stay on Cardassia forever.”

 _You could, you could, please stay, please stay._ Garak’s heart beats with want he won’t verbalize.

“Even when you leave, I won’t let them hurt you.” A terribly transparent lie. What would make him able to stop them, out in Federation space?

Even Julian can hear the impossibility.

“That’s a hard promise to keep. You’d need a lot of help. Maybe an entire agency.”

The implication hangs heavy in the air. Subtlety still isn’t the doctor’s strongest suit.

Garak would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it. He had never enjoyed the blood or brutality of torture, but he had loved the heady rush, the high that came from _power_ , the most intoxicating force imaginable. The power of information, of control, of being untouchable as long as he could be of use to Tain.

Even if he resurrected the Order, it wouldn’t bring back any of what had been before. It wouldn’t be any good for Cardassia, and it certainly wouldn’t be any good for Garak. No, better to let the dead lie buried.

“The Obsidian Order is gone,” Garak says. Then, with a twitch of his lips, “You watched it die, I believe.”

What was Enabran Tain, but the Obsidian Order? What was the Obsidian Order, but Enabran Tain?

“So how will you…” Julian trails off, and seems to decide that he doesn’t want to know. “Never mind.”

Garak is almost glad that Julian didn’t ask, because there is no answer.

“You’ll have to trust me, Doctor,” he responds, an admission of defeat.

The irony is not lost on Julian.

“How? You always tell me not to.”

Garak doesn’t even trust himself. How can he ask another person to do so?

“You wouldn’t have come to Cardassia if you didn’t,” Garak says, and he thinks it’s true. Julian has trusted him for a long time without being asked.

Did Julian come to Cardassia in order to escape the specter of Section 31? Was he hoping Garak would protect him, or was it simply as far away as he thought he could get?

“I came here to help.”

Garak would be a hypocrite not to believe that Julian is entitled to obfuscations of his own, so no comment is made about the myriad other places a doctor could be helpful (Betazed, for one, which had been invaded by the Dominion but remained much more hospitable).

It’s clear that nothing Garak has to say is going to remove the threat. What would it take to get Julian to sleep, if only for one night?

Mila had held a small Elim close, but grown Garak knows better than to try that approach.

He stretches out his legs, and glances at the door.

“What if I stood watch?”

“You need to rest, Garak.”

_So do you, Doctor._

“I already told you I can’t sleep. I may as well make myself useful.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Julian says.

That isn’t a ‘no,’ and Garak has always relied on the unspoken.

“You didn’t have to come to Cardassia,” he replies.

No answer to that appears to be forthcoming, so Garak stands and moves to one of the chairs, to settle in. He may not know how to comfort, but he knows how to stand guard.

Nothing is moving in the shadows. Garak is familiar with every inch of his new home, and it is safe.

When he bids the doctor good night, Garak can hear the sentiment in his voice. He didn’t know it had such a particular sound.

“Good night, Garak,” comes the muffled reply.

Cardassian hearing may not be the most acute, but Garak has learned to listen for the shift in breathing between wakefulness and sleep. He counts in his head, waiting for the doctor’s breath to become deep, steady, and even.

It is only when it does that he risks a whisper:

“Sleep well, Julian.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and sticking with this unwieldy work in progress! I have the next five chapters outlined, so I'm hoping to get them out in a relatively timely manner.


	20. Rubik's Cube Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian puts his thoughts in order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you do when you have more feelings than you know what to do with? Make a list, of course!

The evidence so far:

  * “I wouldn’t let them hurt you”

  * “You can rest here for as long as you need”

  * “Sloan was wrong about you”

  * “Your first instinct is to heal”

  * “Sleep well, Julian” (unless that was a dream?)




Statement of fact: Garak is trying to be kind.

Possible motivations:

  * An apology, although Garak has never shown an affinity for those

  * Gratitude for Julian’s work at the hospital, despite the fact that any help Julian offers feels woefully inadequate

  * Pity, even though Garak has never been fond of that either

  * Friendship, which he did say meant something to him, unless he was lying

  * Possibly something more than friendship, but is that based on wishful thinking or hard evidence?

  * Growing as a person, which is Parmak’s preferred explanation, and good researchers must be willing to collaborate with experts




Setting aside teasing Julian about his clothing (or lack thereof), and lies about time travel and toxic sweat, and the ongoing fundamental differences in morality-

That’s a lot to try to set aside. As a man of science, Julian knows that the hypothesis has to be based on the data, not the other way around.

So, the current conclusion? Results inconclusive, more testing required.

Julian thinks about writing a letter to Garak, returning the favor. The logistics stop him. He could leave a message on his own PADD, since Garak has guessed or can simply bypass Julian’s password, but he doesn’t want to encourage hacking into his personal devices more than strictly necessary. A handwritten note could be left, but Julian’s handwriting is barely passable in Federation Standard, and nonexistent in Cardassian.

What would he even say? _T_ _hank you for_ _everything,_ _sorry I’m a mess,_ _it scares me how much I like you_? Hardly poetry.

Julian will collect more data first. In the meantime, there’s another letter to write. One he has already put off long enough.

He drafts it with care, knowing that anyone might read it. Personal communication is never really private when it goes across subspace, Julian doesn’t need Garak to tell him that.

_Hello, Ezri,_

_Like you, I’ve been thinking a lot. Here are some of the things I’ve come up with:_

_I think I owe you an apology. I’m sorry I shut you out._

_I think it’s important to me to be a good person. That sounds arrogant, of course being a good person is something that matters to most people, or at least it should, but most people aren’t worried that if they stop paying attention they’ll turn into Khan Noonien Singh. I have to be a good person, and I haven’t felt like one in quite a long time. Perhaps no one can be, during war._

_Well, that’s hardly new information, is it? This just in, war is hard! That’s the kind of brilliant insight I know you’ve missed while I’m away._

_You’ll be happy to hear that I am trying to talk to someone. Garak, in fact. He’s a better counselor than patient, although it’s a low bar to clear. At least he didn’t push you into a table. Did I ever tell you about that? It was the withdrawal, of course, but he’s only marginally improved in accepting medical attention since then._

_You didn’t ask about Cardassia, but I’m going to tell you about it anyway. I know Kira would be furious if she heard me say this, but it reminds me of Bajor, when the military first evacuated. If it weren’t for the Federation, I don’t know what would have happened. That’s the part that would make Kira most angry, but I mean it. The soil reclamators made agriculture possible, even though Winn almost did use them to start a civil war. That reminds me- have they declared the new kai yet? They couldn’t possibly do worse than Winn. Maybe Kira should give it a shot._

_I’m getting off-topic. The point is, between you and me, I know we don’t have much sway in Starfleet. But! Worf is an ambassador. Rom is a planetary leader, even if the Federation and Ferenginar aren’t the closest allies. Miles is an academy professor, which might mean some influence. What do you think the chances are that we can convince the politicians to do something good and send some aid to Cardassia? At least a hospital ship. I know the_ Salk _and the_ Franklin _are both designed for relief missions._

_This letter is a little all over the place, but I hope you can forgive me. Your letter was very kind. There is a chance we’ll try again, but then again maybe we won’t. I doubt the timing is going to get better. You have command courses to finish, after all. Did I tell you I’m proud of you? I am, and I should have mentioned it sooner. You’ll look dashing in red._

_Here’s another thing I think: we are still friends. We’ve gone through too much together not to be. Your friendship means a lot to me, as Ezri and as Dax. (Ezri Dax is the best of both, in my opinion.)_

_Love,_

_Julian_

And he means it. It’s just a different kind of love than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a short one, but I hope you enjoy it!


	21. Forgive, Don't Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parmak visits Garak. Garak tries to understand him.

Never in his life has Garak had such a strong craving for regova eggs smothered in yamok sauce. He thinks longingly of infinite food from replicators, everything from uttaberry crepes to groatcakes with syrup of squill.

At this point, he would even take Gramilian sand peas.

He pushes thoughts of food aside when Parmak approaches. Nothing he has to say would be news to the doctor, who is already aware that malnutrition has become its own epidemic.

“It’s coming along well, Garak!” Parmak jovially remarks on the garden as a way of greeting.

There is a small, spiteful part of Elim Garak that truly loathes Kelas Parmak’s good mood. Tortured and imprisoned in a labor camp, his home in ruins, and he still smiles. It makes Garak feel weak, for every second spent being miserable on a station that now feels luxurious in retrospect.

This small part of Garak is not allowed to show. Instead, he returns the smile.

“Thank you, although I can’t take all the credit.”

“Has Bashir been helping you?”

He hasn’t, and they both know it. Bashir spends most of his time at Akleen Hospital, trying to synthesize nutritional supplements when he doesn’t have his head buried in virology.

“No, I think Yaltar scared him off,” Garak says, maintaining the polite fiction that their world isn’t a decaying confluence of medical emergencies.

Parmak surveys the garden with his hands laced behind his back, and Garak rocks back on his heels to watch. For a single bizarre moment, it makes Garak think of his tailor shop, the feeling of having a customer admire his work.

“You’re doing a great service to Cardassia.” Parmak’s voice is warm, and Garak finds himself resenting that too.

 _A great service._ Tain would have laughed. The union crumbling around them, and the only thing Garak can do is scrabble in the dirt.

Then again, what would Tain have offered? What did he ever offer? Security, perhaps, but not of a kind that would have survived the war. Fear, of which there is already an over-abundance.

The people don’t need the Obsidian Order. They need food. And doctors.

“Not as great as yours.” Garak chooses his next words with care. “Cardassia is lucky to have your loyalty, Dr. Parmak. It always has been.”

It’s the closest to an apology that he knows how to give.

Parmak watches him closely with sharp eyes. Garak has to look away from their scrutiny, from the memories they hold.

“Your loyalty as well, Garak,” he says, in spite of the shape that loyalty took.

Was decoding transmissions so that Starfleet could attack loyalty? Was it loyalty to kill every Cardassian who guarded a power plant or manned the bridge of a Jem’Hadar warship? What about when he didn’t turn in Tahna Los or Natima Lang to the proper Cardassian authorities, were those the actions of a loyal citizen?

“You don’t know what I did in exile,” Garak says softly, to the dirt.

On the edge of his periphery, he can see the subtle movement of Parmak’s head nodding.

“You came back. That’s what a man loyal to his homeworld would do.”

Or a man who knew he had nowhere else to go. Unbidden, Julian’s words wind through Garak’s mind: _What about when you run out of doctors you’ve hurt_ _who are willing to_ _forgive you?_ _How will you face yourself then?_

Garak speaks without looking up.

“You don’t have to forgive me.”

Often, he wishes that Parmak hadn’t. Anger would be easier to understand. There is nothing to be gained from being kind to Garak, and he finds it unnerving that Parmak insists on continuing to do so even when he cannot possibly benefit from it. (For a day or two, Garak had thought that perhaps Parmak would take advantage of the opportunity to poison Julian against him, but the doctor let even that easy revenge slip by.)

“I’m not doing it as a personal favor, Garak. I forgave Cardassia, and you’re included.”

Such a plain, calm voice, as if Parmak doesn’t shake the core of Garak’s inner world. _You’re included_. Does he realize what that means, to an exile? He must, having lived in exile himself.

The sentiment is almost heretical in nature. To forgive Cardassia means to admit that the state was in the wrong, that its demands were unreasonable. To love Cardassia has never meant to recognize its faults; quite the opposite, in fact, in case you were overheard by the wrong person.

Is Parmak’s love for Cardassia worth more, because he chooses to give it in spite of everything he’s been through?

Garak has asked for Cardassia’s forgiveness, but never the reverse. It has never occurred to him.

Parmak clears his throat, and Garak becomes aware of how long he has sat in silence. There’s a strange tightness in his throat that makes him reluctant to speak on the subject further.

“Tell me about what you’ve planted,” Parmak requests kindly.

Garak welcomes the abrupt change in topic and slips into his role of enthusiastic gardener. Much easier than rethinking his entire relationship to his motherland. (An apt term, considering Order agents didn’t have parents any more than they had children.)

“That row is rulot, and next to it is aytlik. Professor O’Brien sent the sprouts from Earth. They’re called ‘succulents.’” He is a little too sibilant on the Federation Standard word, but Parmak won’t know the difference.

“And the rest of the space?” Parmak indicates with a broad sweep of his hand. Tain’s house was large, and Garak has decided with vindictive pleasure not to leave a single stone standing.

“It’s saved for elta. Bronok and Ranor thought they’d be able to locate some seeds. I asked for krintar roots, too, but I doubt they’ll find any.” Privately, he isn’t even sure they’ll be able to find the elta, but it gives the two brothers something to do. In current circumstances, school is a thing of the past.

“Sounds like my mother’s recipe for sem’hal stew,” Parmak notes appreciatively. Garak’s stomach grumbles at the thought.

“Maybe one day we’ll even grow rokassa fruit.” Another well-intentioned lie for them to share, ignoring the reality of a planet that may as well be doomed.

“And here?” Parmak nods to the spiky, dark green stems that border each section.

Garak feels a spasm in his chest, and sternly reminds himself that there is nothing suspicious about flowers, and no one is watching anymore.

“Edosian orchids. They’re something of a specialty of mine.”

Parmak bends down for a closer look, one hand on his lower back as if the action pains him. Garak wonders if all doctors are equally terrible at maintaining their own health.

“They’re highly toxic, aren’t they?”

“Beautiful, too,” Garak answers lightly.

“You do love your metaphors, Garak.”

“It’s just a flower, Parmak.”

“Of course.” Parmak does not look entirely convinced, but Garak smiles tightly and says nothing. “I notice you’ve been going to the community forums.”

In fact, since they grew out of covert civilian gatherings during the last stage of the rebellion, Garak could be considered a founder of the forum. He does not say so.

“Our responsibility as engaged citizens, I’m told.”

“What do you think of them?”

Initially, Garak would merely sit, discontented, and make discouraging noises whenever someone tried to overplay their own role in the revolt. Lately, the meetings have become something of an exercise in restraint. He doesn’t kill anyone, and comes home proud of that small victory at least.

“I think life on Qo’nos might be preferable,” he decides. “Or Andoria.” Or anywhere that actually _has_ a government, instead of angry citizens who don’t know how to take power and blustering bureaucrats who don’t know how to give it up. The cold would be worth it, to be done with the atrocious experiment of democracy.

“Have you thought about participating?”

Only in the sense that he’s occasionally imagined giving a long, profanity-laden speech indicating where, exactly, any surviving military personnel can stick their plans to restore Central Command.

“I’m not much of a politician,” Garak demurs.

“Really? You do like to talk,” Parmak observes wryly.

“What would I have to say?”

“Something about the future. That’s everyone’s favorite topic, these days.”

Garak’s own vision of the future is nebulous at best and cataclysmic otherwise. They’ve already lived through the apocalypse, but Garak can always imagine a way things could be worse.

“I don’t have much to contribute on the subject.”

“Then talk about gardening,” Parmak suggests. “At least it would be a nice change of pace.”

Garak hums noncommittally.

“I’ll think about it.”

“I hope you do, Garak.” He glances up, then looks quickly away from Parmak’s intensely earnest eyes. “You fought to help free us from the Dominion. You have as much of a right as anyone else to have a say in Cardassia’s future. Perhaps you can even convince everyone to accept more Federation doctors, since Dr. Bashir will be leaving soon.”

Garak is so busy preparing to argue with the idea of who has a _right_ to decide Cardassia’s course that he almost misses the last sentence.

 _Dr. Bashir will be leaving soon_.

Despite the warmth of the sun and Kelas Parmak, Garak feels cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What motivates you to forgive the people who have harmed you? Is it easier to forgive other people or yourself?


	22. Future Imperfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cure is found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to update Wednesdays and Sundays. We'll see if I can stick to that!

“I wish Parmak hadn’t said anything,” Julian admits. He sits on the floor, long legs crumpled beneath him, gnawing a ration bar and trying to pretend it tastes like something edible. “I wanted to tell you myself.”

The corners of Garak’s mouth twist up, but it isn’t quite a smile.

“I’m happy for you,” he says, and Julian feels a pang in his stomach as he hears his own words to Ezri. Were they that insincere coming from him? “It’s quite an achievement.”

Julian often feels like a walking compilation of achievements, rather than a person. That’s what his parents paid for, after all, a child who could accrue accomplishments.

“It wasn’t me,” he corrects brusquely. “It was a team on Solosos III.”

Solosos III is uninhabitable by most non-Cardassian humanoids, a casualty of the conflict between Starfleet and the Maquis (or, more personally, between Benjamin Sisko and Michael Eddington). Ironically, its uninhabitable nature enabled the planet to survive the Dominion war more or less intact. It is not, strictly speaking, a Cardassian Union colony anymore, but it has Cardassian inhabitants affected by the outbreak and the resources to do something about it.

It’s not that Julian is upset with them. What kind of monster would bewail the discovery of a cure to a virulent disease ravaging already ailing worlds? No, his anger is purely self-directed. What is the point of being a damn mutant if he can’t help people? He is supposed to be better, to be able to do what others can’t.

It’s the Teplan Blight all over again. Arrogant Federation doctor with a savior complex swoops in, and realizes how many people he can’t save.

Or, augment hopelessly continues to believe that he can derive greater meaning from his parents’ choice to render him illegal.

Garak watches him, with eyes that see too much, so Julian offers a brittle smile.

“It’s impressive work.” _Very impressive, and they didn’t even need to break the law to do it_.

“The benefits of working in a hospital with a consistent power source, I suppose.”

Julian wants to argue, but he can’t without addressing the heart of the matter. _The problem isn’t_ _the damaged energy grid_ _, the problem is me, that I’m never good enough_.

He takes a page out of Garak’s book and changes the subject.

“Are you going to eat anything?”

“I already did.” Garak pats his stomach with a satisfied air. That means he’s definitely lying, because there is nothing satisfying to eat in the entire city, but he keeps talking before Julian can point that out. “Parmak has a very high opinion of you, you know.”

“It’s been an honor working with him,” Julian replies diplomatically. He likes Parmak’s serene nature, good humor, and invaluable insight, but he can’t help but think that Parmak would think even more highly of someone who had actually succeeded.

“You’re the first human he’s ever met.”

That can’t be true. Can it? Julian is used to humanity being ubiquitous, even on the frontier. They’re notorious for it.

How many Cardassians have had their own first contact with Julian Bashir?

A nauseating thought.

“I hope I made a good impression.” Unconsciously, Julian smooths out the fabric of his trousers.

“The fact that you came here at all makes an impression. We’ve been enemies of the Federation longer than we’ve been allies, Doctor. There are many who are surprised a human would come to help.” Garak pauses a moment, letting his words sink in, settling like a stone into the pit of guilt in Julian’s stomach. “They notice the face administering the cure, not the name of the creator.”

The threads of Julian’s thoughts push and pull against each other. _It’s not good enough- it’s just Garak being kind- why is Garak being so kind- there should be more humans helping- the Federation should be helping- I’m not good enough- why is it so hard to feel good_ _enough_ _?_

Julian presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and tries to remember the last time that he really felt like a healer. Before the Quickening, probably. One of the accomplishments that everyone loves to celebrate, and he considers it one of his greatest failures. He never did find a cure.

He pulls his hands away but leaves his eyes closed, watching spots dance across the darkness of his vision. He helped Sarina out of catatonia, and then almost drove her back into it with his carelessness. The last illness he successfully cured was the morphogenic virus, and he had to murder a man to do it.

A touch on his shoulder. He remembers the last time Garak touched him there, the unfamiliar softness in his voice. _I’ll keep you safe_.

“Doctor, are you all right?”

The answer is no, but Julian opens his eyes and smiles wanly anyways.

“Tired, Garak.”

Garak’s face is full of undisguised concern, and Julian’s heart lurches at the sight.

Elim Garak, openly caring about someone. Julian would gloat, if he weren’t busy excoriating himself.

He tries to repeat Garak’s words in his mind: _My first instinct is to heal_. Can instinct be enough?

Garak, with creaky knees and an aggrieved expression, slides down the wall until he is sitting at Julian’s side, maintaining the touch.

“I’m too old to be sitting on the floor like this,” he complains, and Julian has to smile.

“Then get more chairs.”

“There are perfectly good chairs, right over there. You refuse to sit in them, for reasons I cannot begin to understand.”

Maybe it’s something human, the desire that Julian has to curl and sprawl and sit in unusual positions, but Cardassian chairs are not very accommodating.

Tentatively, Garak’s hand moves to the other side of Julian’s neck, leaving the weight of his arm along Julian’s shoulders.

It’s too warm to be pressed up against someone else’s body heat, but Julian can’t bring himself to mind. He no longer feels heavy and fluttery all at once; with Garak’s arm grounding him, he feels almost… whole.

“I wanted to make a difference,” he murmurs, not knowing if Garak will hear him, not knowing if that’s what he wants.

“You are.” The low voice in his ear sends a pleasant thrill down his spine.

Why is Garak willing to come so close? What is Julian missing? There is a piece of the puzzle that continues to elude him, always out of reach.

Julian has a perfect internal chronometer. The seconds tick by in his mind, counted and cataloged with automatic efficiency. It is longer than he would have expected, before Garak speaks again.

“What will you do now?”

“I…” Julian exhales gustily. “I haven’t decided.”

The end of the plague does not spell the end of his problems, as he had once hoped. Section 31 still looms. His friends are still scattered. Nothing is fixed.

Garak patiently waits. How long would he sit in silence, if Julian needed him to? How far can Julian push forward before Garak pushes him away?

“I don’t know how to go back,” Julian confesses, long fingers mindlessly shredding the wrapper of his ration bar into silvery strips. “I can’t stand what we’ve become… what I’m becoming. But if every person of conscience leaves the fleet, who’s left?” He tears the strips into squares, a flutter of bright confetti on the floor. “That’s if I haven’t lost my commission. Not everyone was happy with the JAG ruling, and now…”

 _And now I’m hiding on Cardassia to avoid the consequences of what I’ve done_.

“Parmak would be happy to keep you at the hospital. It doesn’t pay, but neither does Starfleet, if I remember correctly.”

Julian huffs a silent laugh. Starfleet doesn’t pay because Earth is post-scarcity; Cardassia doesn’t pay because it is post-abundance.

He would be the only human at the hospital, in the city, possibly on the whole planet if he can’t convince the Federation to send any assistance. He would be dirty and hungry and he would probably have to burn his shorts.

Garak would be there.

Garak, who is so close Julian can calculate his heartbeat and respiratory rate and everything but his motives.

“I need you to answer a question honestly- and don’t tell me that you’re always honest.” Julian interrupts himself to anticipate Garak’s objection.

Garak’s harrumph would rival Odo.

“Very well.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

“That’s hardly a question. Your medical expertise is invaluable, and I already told you that you are welcome in my home, for as long as you desire.”

Julian doesn’t allow himself to turn his neck and look. Instead, he keeps his gaze straight ahead at the opposite wall, imagining the muted sunlight outside. Most hot climates he’s experienced are proportionally bright; Cardassia is unexpectedly dim. Something about the dust in the atmosphere, apparently. There’s still so much about this world that he doesn’t understand.

“That isn’t what I asked. Do you, Elim Garak, want me to stay here, on Cardassia?”

Julian can predict when Garak will next draw a breath, the exact volume of air that will fill his lungs, how the circumference of his chest will expand.

He can’t predict whether or not Garak will even be willing to answer.

The response, when it comes, is quiet. Unusual for Garak, as unusual as honesty.

“Yes.”

Julian leans his head against Garak’s shoulder, and thinks about the nature of exile.

At least there is one spot of the universe where he is wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Julian-cures-Cardassia is a great trope! But I wanted to explore what happens when he doesn't. I think part of Julian's arc is coming to terms with the fact that he cannot always miraculously save the day (another thing to forgive himself for).


	23. Bloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a moment alone, Garak makes plans to address the city's community forum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one, but the moment felt like it needed to stand on its own.

Garak develops his speech at night, in the garden that was once Tain’s house, where he now has room to think out loud without listening ears. The stars are brighter than they ever were before, when the city glowed with the constant artificial light of billboards and buildings, and he wonders at that. That something beautiful can come from terror.

“My name is Elim Garak.”

Even that beginning feels wrong. Garak hasn’t introduced himself with his first name in years.

In recollection and doubtful moments, Enabran’s soft, mocking voice calls him ‘Elim.’ It doesn’t endear Garak to the name. But Tain is dead, and somewhere a line must be drawn, limiting the things his memory is allowed to ruin.

“My name is Elim Garak.”

And then what? Many include their former occupation when introducing themselves. What would Garak say? Certainly not that he was an agent of the Obsidian Order. If he claimed simple tailor, would Parmak point out the lie?

Garak skips forward. He can decide the introduction later, the important piece is what follows.

What does Elim Garak have to say to the capital city? What can he offer to its vision of the future?

What does he want for his home? What is Garak’s role in the new Cardassia?

A gardener. He has decided that much at least.

The metaphor comes to mind slowly, in imperfect pieces.

_Cardassia, the people of discipline, the people of strength. Careful caretakers, weeding and pruning, never letting a canker show._

_I have rooted out the undesirable elements, in my time. I have also been cast aside to join them._

_Now the question looms before us. What shape will our garden take next?_

_Rather than thinking about what needs to be cut and trimmed and clipped away, we must consider the best parts of Cardassia. What do we want to nurture? What do we want to grow?_

A flash of white on the ground catches Garak’s attention when he glimpses it out of the corner of his eye. He thinks at first it is an insect, which would be a good sign; animal life will be necessary if the planet is to revive.

It isn’t.

Garak drops to his knees to examine more closely, wondering if he is asleep and dreaming. The thin, velvety petals between his fingertips feel real.

Elongated white ovals with spidery purple veins. Small, to be sure. Fragile.

Unmistakably the bloom of an Edosian orchid.

Inside him, the bloom of pride.

Tain would be disappointed. _That’s your great accomplishment, Elim?_ _One small flower, easily crushed into the dust. How far you’ve fallen._

Then again, Tain was always disappointed. Whether Garak’s hands were sullied with blood or soil made no difference in Enabran’s ever-disapproving eyes.

Mila would understand. Mila would have been proud, that her son was giving something life.

The edges of the flower blur, and Garak has to blink several times before he understands, piecing together the fuzzy vision and burning eyes and wetness on his cheek.

He is crying.

Elim sits under the stars, surrounded by new growth emerging from Tain’s broken legacy, and lets himself cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and I sure hope you enjoy Garak introspection!  
> In other news, I am in too deep and officially have a fandom tumblr (thanks, cemetrygatess!). Find me at sapphosewrites


	24. Echo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another late night conversation. Julian asks Garak for advice.

_The nightmare starts as it always does, Jules on the table with bright lights shining and garbled voices all around._

_Julian doesn’t know how much of it is a dream and how much is a memory. Were the alien scientists really such tall, shadowy figures? Was the room so bright and cold?_

_Kukalaka is never there, in the nightmare. There is nothing soft and familiar for Jules to cling to as they destroy him, piece by piece._

_This time, something is different. There is a light-skinned human man with brown hair and a strong jaw, dressed in black leather._

“ _Hello, Doctor Bashir,” he says._

 _Jules whimpers in response. Julian watches from an outsider’s perspective, hovering on the periphery of the room. He tries to shout_ leave him alone, Sloan _or to rush in and protect the little boy. But that’s one of the constants of the dream. Julian can’t speak or move; he can only watch._

_Sloan steps closer to Jules, who has curled up into a ball._

“ _The Federation needs men like you. Stronger, faster, smarter. Section 31 has plans for you.”_

_Sloan’s head turns sharply, and his eyes lock on to Julian’s, more terrifying than they ever were in reality._

“ _It’s time,” Sloan tells him, and Julian can only stare helplessly as his arm lifts jerkily upward of its own accord, a hypospray clutched in his fingers._

_Jules screams. Julian’s mouth opens, but he cannot make a sound._

The dream clings to him long after he wakes up, a second skin of fear. Even though it is well before sunrise, he cannot coax himself back to sleep. Adrenaline pulses through his system, and he can’t keep his eyes closed. Instead, they scan the darkness restlessly for people that aren’t there.

 _Scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum, pisiform…_ Julian rolls his wrists as he internally recites the names of the carpal bones that connect his hands and arms, willing his body into something familiar and controlled. It is a practiced routine, after this nightmare that has haunted him in varied forms since childhood.

“Pardon me for waking you, Doctor.” There is no gravel or slur in Garak’s voice. Doesn’t he ever sleep?

Julian blinks, willing his human vision to stretch beyond its limits. He thinks he can just make out the figure of Garak standing.

“You didn’t-” Julian voices comes out as a croak, and he hurries to clear his throat. “You didn’t wake me up.”

“Good. I would hate if my midnight stroll ruined your sleep.”

Is midnight stroll some sort of code? Is Garak up to something?

Julian is too tense for intrigue.

“Welcome back.” He realizes this is a silly thing to say to the person who owns the house you’re staying in, but he’s hardly at his peak for conversation.

He can hear the smile in Garak’s voice.

“Thank you. Trouble sleeping, my dear?”

“I was thinking.” Julian shakes his head, trying to clear the last lingering vestiges of the warped Adigeon Prime.

“Oh?”

That monosyllable is an invitation to talk, the same as Miles O’Brien showing up with a bottle of whiskey. So maybe Garak can stand talking about Julian’s emotions, so long as they don’t involve him?

The specter of Sloan lurks on the edge of Julian’s vision. _Section 31 has plans for you_. Julian taps his fingers against each other and tries to drown out Sloan’s voice with metacarpals and proximal, medial, distal phalanges.

“Garak, I have a question. About the Obsidian Order.”

Silence. Real silence, no hum of engines or chirp of insects to interrupt it. A younger Julian would have fumbled, immediately regretful, and supplied a flood of words.

The older Julian breathes. It’s a gamble, hoping that he will be able to out-wait Garak, but it’s not as if Julian knows any other former spies.

Still no answer. There must be a middle ground between saying everything and saying nothing.

“If Tain hadn’t… If the mission to the Gamma Quadrant hadn’t happened, and the Order were still around. What would it have taken to- to shut it down?”

“An unusual choice of conversation topic, Doctor. Whatever brought it to mind?”

 _Radius, ulna, humerus_. Julian slowly drags his right hand up his left arm. _This body is mine_.

“Hypothetically. If I wanted to stop Section 31. What would I have to do?”

That was the plan, Sisko’s orders. Get involved in order to expose them. A double agent with a purpose, not a puppet.

He is almost surprised that Garak actually answers.

“It can’t be done from the outside,” Garak warns. “That’s the beauty of the conspiracy. It sounds outlandish whenever you try to describe it. You’re laughed into ignominy, and then they dispose of you quietly once you’re forgotten.”

Julian rubs his scapula forcefully. There is a little too much admiration in Garak’s tone.

“What about from the inside?” A surgery won’t work, the malignance can’t be removed by external force, but maybe an antibiotic, fighting it from inside the body.

“That is how the Changeling took down the Obsidian Order.”

Garak and Odo never told Julian what had happened on their ill-fated journey. He learned of it two years later, from the dying man in the internment camp. Had he ever admitted to Garak what he knew? Julian couldn’t recall.

The Changeling wiped out the Obsidian Order and the Tal Shiar in one fell swoop, a sickening loss of life.

“I don’t want to kill anyone.”

“I don’t see any alternative. You would have to give up being a doctor, of course, and most of your research. Curing plagues is far too conspicuous for a spy. It’s not a very _healing_ line of work. But don’t worry. At the end of twenty or thirty years, you might be able to get rid of them, and hope that no one ever finds out what you did. The ends justify the means, after all.”

Garak’s voice is iron, and it makes Julian shiver. Garak has considered this before. Did he dream about doing it, or of defeating anyone who would try?

“Parmak said you gave up your soul for the state,” Julian remembers.

“Parmak seems to be under the mistaken impression that I had one to begin with.”

Julian tries to think of how to respond. He doesn’t want to get drawn into a metaphysical conversation about the nature of existence, which might be the inevitable outcome of a remark like _of course you have a soul_. Julian doesn’t even know what side he would take in that argument. He doesn’t know if he has one, either.

Garak is naturally pessimistic, but he has a point beneath the self-deprecation. If Julian has a soul, he would be selling it the second he joined Section 31, good intentions be damned.

The alternative, continuing to live in fear while the Federation rots, holds no appeal.

A tendril of a conversation from years ago drifts into Julian’s mind. _Are you saying that the Cardassian government would have you killed if you left the station?_

“On the station, how did you manage, when you were always worried someone might be coming to kill you?”

Julian winces once he’s said it. It’s the wrong question to ask, since he knows that the answers include avoidance and anxiety and addiction. Garak gives a bark of humorless laughter.

“In the beginning, I wished they would. It was almost a relief when Tain finally tried. It validated years of paranoia.” Garak’s tone is too light, mismatched with the heavy words. “After he died, the only person truly invested in my demise was Dukat, and I was determined not to give him the satisfaction.”

Sometimes, Julian forgets what a cold and uncaring place Garak’s universe has been. So desperate for the attention of a father that even attempted murder is welcome.

It makes Julian wish, fervently, that he could make Garak feel really, truly loved.

An inner voice sternly checks the source of that impulse. _Just what everyone wants, a second sloppy confession from the emotional wreck camping out on your floor._

“I hope you had something good to stay alive for,” he finds himself saying. “Aside from sheer spite.”

“Well, I did hold out hope that you would one day change your opinion about _The Never-Ending Sacrifice_.”

That makes Julian chuckle, as much for the release of tension as for any real humor.

“I’m glad I can give you hope, Garak.”

“As am I, my dear.”

It itches at Julian, even when they try to back to sleep, until he finally realizes on his way to the clinic.

Garak called him ‘my dear,’ without the ‘doctor.’ Twice.

Julian adds it to the list of evidence, and reevaluates his conclusions.


	25. Reciprocity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite living in the same house, Garak and Julian continue to communicate via letters.

Spies do not live to grow old. It’s a known fact, an objective truth. Enabran Tain was the exception that proved the rule. He lived long enough to retire, and then endangered the entire quadrant trying to reclaim lost power.

Heroes do not live long either. They die like Damar, martyred in a blaze of glory, or they live to become jaded and disappointing, like the Bajoran Li Nalas all those years ago.

Well, Garak is no longer a spy, and the idea of growing old is becoming more and more appealing. He could be useful and serve Cardassia longer, and (if he is being honest, which he only is with himself), he would enjoy every extra moment with Julian that he can get.

He won’t get many moments at all if Julian is still determined to become a hero.

These are the thoughts that occupy Garak as he stacks stones. The rubble is being re-purposed to provide more weather-proof walls to makeshift shelters, and he is not sorry to see it go.

He has given up on viewing his work in the garden as a private activity. This is where he spends most of his time, and there are more people than he would expect trying to find him.

“Have you found the krintar already, Ranor?” He addresses the small shape trying to wedge itself behind one of the cairns.

With a sigh, the young boy emerges from hiding.

“How did you spot me that time?” he demands.

“Your scent,” Garak replies. The child squints suspiciously but doesn’t say anything, just in case Garak is telling the truth. He isn’t, of course, but he likes to keep people guessing.

“I’ve got a note for you from the Fed doctor,” Ranor announces, and holds out a piece of paper that Julian apparently managed to acquire.

How quaint. Garak can’t remember the last time he received a physical letter. He wonders if the message will simply be, ‘ _Stay off my PADD._ ’

It could be that Julian has decided to leave, and doesn’t want to tell Garak in person, but that fear is easily dismissed as being rooted in self-pity rather than reality. A Federation shuttle couldn’t land in the capital city without Garak hearing about it.

“What did he give you in order to deliver it?” Garak asks.

Ranor’s brow furrows, wrinkles forming around his forehead indentation.

“Nothing.”

“Well, there’s a lesson for you. Don’t accept a job without knowing what you’ll get in return.” He holds out his hand expectantly, only for Ranor’s arm to quickly retract.

“What will I get in return?”

A fast learner. Garak smiles.

“I’ll show you how to hide better. Will that do?”

Ranor looks Garak up and down and sucks on his lower lip, thinking.

“Fine,” he eventually decides. “Deal.”

Garak waits for the boy to have something else to do before reading the letter. He should really tuck it away until he is home and alone, but Garak feels that, where the doctor is concerned, he has spent long enough being patient.

_Garak,_

_You can read this letter on two conditions. Firstly, you may only make fun of my handwriting if I get to see a sample of yours in Federation Standard, and I agree that it’s better. Secondly, you must agree to keep an open mind. That is, after all, the essence of intellect._

_I’ll start with one of your favorite things to hear: You were right. You were right about me, and Sloan was wrong. I don’t like secrets, I like puzzles. I think that’s why I like it when you lie. I enjoy the challenge, of trying to figure out the truth. And they’re usually very good stories. You certainly know how to entertain (and exasperate) your audience. Were you a writer in one of your past professions? Or perhaps an actor?_

_In the beginning, we started exchanging literature so that I could better understand Cardassia. Living here, and having met the people, I think I’m finally beginning to. I can now say with confidence something that I’ve always suspected:_ The Never-Ending Sacrifice _is not a good book, and even other Cardassians don’t like it as much as you do._

_I wonder what you see in it. Was it all a lie, and you actually hate the thing? It could be that you just enjoyed arguing with me about it. We’ve certainly had some excellent arguments._

_I try to imagine what it might say about you, if you do like the galaxy’s longest, dullest repetitive epic. Do you find comfort in the familiarity, in always knowing how each story will end? Is it the family legacy that appeals to you, each generation so tightly knit with the next and the one before?_

_Once, I might not have bothered asking, because I would have known better than to believe your answer. But you’ve been surprising me lately, Garak, by telling the truth. (I’ll consider that another reason why you might lie; it gives you the element of surprise.)_

_I’d like to write you a letter as lovely and comforting as the one you wrote me, but I can’t quite comfort you when I don’t know what it is you worry about, aside from democracy. I do want you to know that, if you are capable of talking about it, you can talk with me. I owe you after everything you’ve put up with from me these past few weeks._

_I don’t mean to make it sound as if I’d just be discharging an obligation. I suppose what I really mean to say is, I’d like to get to know you better. It’s been seven years and I’ve only scratched the surface, but I’m willing to devote as many years as it takes._

_You can write me your response, if you’d like, but you’ll have to find a source for paper yourself. I have to have some secrets of my own, after all._

_In conclusion, you don’t enjoy being thanked, but you’ll have to put up with it. When I arrived on Cardassia, I was falling apart. You have helped me begin to put myself back together. I suppose some tasks require a tailor._

_Your dear doctor,_

_Julian_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Garak's train of thought in the beginning the "you either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain" meme from a Batman movie? Yes. I apologize.
> 
> The idea of Garak giving questionable lessons to local children was inspired by "Under the Blind Moon" by Syaunei


	26. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian gets a message from Deep Space 9.

_To: Lt. Dr. J. S. Bashir_

_Are you out of your Federation mind???_

_I come back from Bajor to find out that the station has no Chief Medical Officer, because you decided to run off to Cardassia for a damn sabbatical and no one has heard from you or knows when you’ll be back! Who in Starfleet approved this?_

_Things are happening on the station, and you need to know about them. I’m making arrangements for the Xhosa to come get you._

_That’s an order._

_From: Colonel Kira Nerys, Acting Commander, Deep Space 9_

Julian re-reads the message twice, feeling oddly dreamlike. In his panicked haste to leave the station, he had forgotten the obvious fact that Kira would be coming back.

It’s almost comical, how poor the timing is. Maybe in a few years it will be something he can laugh about. Right now, it feels monstrously unfair.

He could disobey the order. The meshing of Starfleet and Bajoran militia command structures has never been clear, but there is an argument to be made that she is not his commanding officer. The highest ranking member of the fleet aboard the station would be. Who even is that now, with almost all of the senior staff gone? Julian isn’t sure anymore.

Besides, if he refuses to come back, he will have to explain why. That is a conversation he can’t imagine going over well. How long can he really stay away from the station before it becomes a de facto resignation? Leave policies are generous, particularly for those who have seen active combat duty, but eventually his commission is going to be at stake.

Then there are the logistics of staying to be considered. Not having a salary is all well and good in a society where currency has been eliminated, but Cardassia is a different entity. How long will Garak’s generosity last? What will Julian eat, when the field rations run out?

As a doctor, he can only heal one patient at a time. More, if he can develop new drugs, but the hospital institutions on the surface are ill-equipped to support research. If he returns to the Federation, can he convince them to send aid? Is that the best way to help?

Going back means facing the emptiness of Deep Space 9 and the gulf with Ezri. It means living in the shadow of Khan with the specter of Section 31 at his heels.

There is a safety to self-imposed exile in Cardassia, with Garak.

Garak, who wants him to stay. A thrilling, frightening, all-encompassing thought. Garak wants him around, and is willing to admit it.

Would Julian resign by letter? Would he give up the chance to say goodbye?

When he was only focused on running, it was easy not to think about what he left behind.

Garak comes through the door with letter in hand. That letter. Julian had felt so clever writing it, all intimation and invitation. Now it just seems cruel.

The cruelest thing is the smile on Garak’s face. He looks truly, sincerely happy, and Julian is about to crush it.

He holds out the PADD wordlessly. He doesn’t know what to say.

Garak’s smile slips almost immediately, and he takes the device with wary watchfulness. He reads in sharp silence, face more opaque than ever, as if to compensate for his split second moment of openness.

Julian’s stomach ties itself into knots. He can’t decide which would be worse: if Garak tells him to go, or if Garak asks him once more to stay.

“You could call her on subspace.” It’s the first thing Garak has said since entering the room, and it’s not a real suggestion. The communications systems are heavily damaged, first by resistance sabotage and then by Dominion retribution. Sending written messages is as much as any terminal can handle right now.

Julian doesn’t say so. It seems rude, especially now, to remind Garak that his home is in ruins.

Garak takes his lack of response as an answer.

“I see.” A head tilted to the side is the only indication of feeling. “You have to go back, of course. You have a duty.”

“I could tell her I’m going to stay,” Julian offers weakly.

“Are you?”

Is he ready to commit to resigning from the post he’s held since graduating medical school? From the organization he broke the law to join?

The arguments to stay on Cardassia are sour with the taste of fear. He’s only been on the planet for a few weeks. It’s all too much, too soon. After all, even if he stays to help with restoration, it won’t be forever, will it? What would be his backup plan? Back to Earth?

There’s the third to last line of Kira’s message to be considered as well. What’s happening on the station that he has to know about, and why couldn’t she simply explain it in the letter?

“I can always come back,” Julian says, a feeble half promise. There’s a faint echo of Garak’s voice in his ear, of a goodbye when they were already distant. _Who can say? We live in uncertain times_.

“You’ll do what you think is right,” Garak predicts.

How is Julian supposed to decide what that is?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Julian runs away to Cardassia is also a great trope! I obviously think so, or I wouldn't be writing it. But I do think that running away from your problems doesn't make them go away, and while "I'm staying with you because I have nowhere else to go" may seem romantic, it's better for a long-term relationship to be someone's choice, not just their last resort.


	27. Coping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian has made his choice, and Garak adjusts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I ever be done writing Garak introspection? The answer is no.

When Garak returned to Cardassia after the war, the shock and grief had rendered him numb. It was too much loss to fathom, much less feel, and so he felt nothing at all.

He misses that, now.

He mourns every future he and the dead citizens and Cardassia itself might have had. The culture, the pride, the sense of identity of his people- all have been destroyed.

It begins with Julian leaving in the morning. Garak does what he can, thoroughly checks the _Xhosa_ for potential sabotage or hidden explosives, and returns to his home aching and empty. Rather than abating, the sense of loss magnifies as the day goes on. He thinks of Mila, denied a proper burial, to whom he never truly said goodbye. Mila brings up thoughts of how many others have suffered losses in the bombardments, and the eight hundred million dead.

Garak doesn’t cry. He can only sit, dizzy with despair, reeling.

He remembers the wire, the kanar and triptacederine he stockpiled when the implant failed, hurting others, hurting himself- every tool he once had to dull the pain is now out of his reach.

He can only do what every Cardassian tries to do, his duty.

His duty is to grow food, and he must, for those who are not yet ghosts.

In the garden, he sees the orchid blossom and tries to let it fill his soul, to remember that he grew it, in poisoned soil. That he will help people. That this is a path he chose for himself, for the first time.

This isn’t just his duty. This is what he wants, to help Cardassia if it can be helped, and to die with his kinsmen if it can’t.

There are other things he wants, more letters and more visits and a closeness he craves so badly that it scares him, but that is Julian’s choice to make. Garak cannot blame Julian if he is not what Julian chooses.

 _You’re pathetic_ , Tain whispers in his mind.

 _You’re dead_ , Garak retorts silently.

 _If you hadn’t hoped, if you hadn’t wanted, it wouldn’t hurt_.

An obvious lie. The voice of Enabran that echoes in Garak’s mind isn’t as believable as it used to be.

The time seems to pass more slowly when he is not going home to someone, but there are ways to fill the day. He’ll teach Ranor how to hide, he’ll discuss with Yaltar the best source of water for the plants, he may even ask Siana and Parmak if they can use an unskilled volunteer at the hospital. He’ll give a speech at the community forum and tear down Tain’s legacy, piece by piece, arguing for a future of dissidents where they are not ruled by fear.

Even if the future does not come to pass, even if the road there is paved with a thousand regrets, Garak will do his duty and fight for it.

He _wants_ to fight for it.

He also wants Julian to come back, but one cannot get everything one wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will take place back on the station!


	28. Home Sweet Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian catches up with Kira, back aboard the station.

Julian’s first plan when he gets off the freighter is to make a beeline to the sonic shower in his quarters, followed by a reunion with the replicator and a clean set of clothes.

He gets no further than the corridor before that plan is interrupted.

“Julian, there you are!”

“Ezri!”

His pleasure in seeing her is genuine, and he has stepped forward with arms outstretched before reality hits him at the last second.

Her letter. His letter. Their breakup.

He stills. A kiss is out of the question. Is a hug too far?

Julian drops his arms. They stand for a moment.

“It’s good to have you back,” Ezri offers at last. Julian doesn’t quite know whether to believe her. He had meant it, when he wrote that they were friends, but in person he feels off-balance and unsure.

“Thanks.” He takes a breath. He has faced worse dangers than an awkward encounter with an ex-girlfriend. “I’d like to catch up, but I need a date with the sonic shower first. I can’t imagine how badly I smell.” He smiles, hoping to allay the tension with the joke.

“Nerys said you should go to her office as soon as you disembarked.”

“Right. Well, I’ll get on that then.” He steps down the hall; she follows. “You don’t have to show me the way there. I haven’t been gone that long.”

“Sorry, I’m under orders.” Ezri smiles apologetically. “She wanted to make sure you got there immediately.”

The apparent need for a babysitter stings, as does the choice of escort.

“She’s lucky you weren’t with a patient.”

“I’m on duty in Ops, actually. I’ve been taking a couple shifts to see if I like it.”

“Do you?”

“I think so. It brings up memories, of course, but I’m getting better at dealing with them. And it can come in handy. If it hadn’t been for Tobin and what he knew about the auxiliary multiphasic variance dampener…”

Julian wants to listen, he really does, but he keeps getting distracted. The station feels cool and bright, and it’s already strange to see other humans passing by. He adjusted to Cardassia more than he realized.

Seven years ago, anyone who met Kira Nerys would have walked away with one very firm impression: she was _angry_. Angry not only at Cardassians, but at Bajoran collaborators and the provincial government and the Federation and the universe at large. Angry with the intense energy of several small suns. Angry unlike anyone Julian Bashir had ever met.

He has learned, gradually over the years, that there are many sides to her beyond anger. That she laughs and loves and takes loyalty seriously. That she would give her womb to another woman’s child and stay by a Cardassian’s side while he died. That her faith is as intense as her anger. That, like everyone else, she is trying to find her place. He has seen her soft, and vulnerable, and joyful, and in pain.

He has seen so much of her, in fact, that he has almost forgotten what it feels like to be standing in the path of all that anger. He enters the office that was once Sisko’s woefully unprepared.

“What were you thinking?” she demands as soon as she sees him. It’s not so much a question as an indictment.

“It’s nice to see you too.” Julian almost wishes Ezri had stayed, to take some of the force of the maelstrom.

“The second I’m off the station, you run away to Cardassia to play _frontier_ doctor!”

Julian retreats into professionalism. Calm, cool, collected, clipped voice and clasped hands. If she has called him back to the station to upbraid him for things he said years ago, he’ll get back on the Xhosa right now.

“That was uncalled for.”

The Kira Nerys of seven years ago would have continued to argue. This one gives him a hard look, as if seeing him for the first time, and visibly deflates.

He almost feels bad. Sometimes it’s easier to be angry than to face other feelings.

“… You’re right. I’m sorry.”

He marginally relaxes his stiff posture, still on guard.

“Thank you.”

“Do you want to sit down?” She gestures vaguely at the chair across the desk. He nods, and the two of them sit down on the opposite sides. Kira reaches out and lightly rests her fingertips on Sisko’s baseball.

Julian hadn’t even realized it was still there, although its absence would have been conspicuous. He can no longer imagine the desk without it.

“Ezri was worried about you,” Kira says, and Julian has to wonder exactly how much Ezri has told her. The only thing that could make this whole situation worse is if Kira is going to try and talk to him about Garak.

(He remembers the last time she tried to do so, late night in the infirmary while Odo’s life slipped away, before Julian decided to take matters into his own hands and everything went wrong. He doesn’t want to talk about it.)

“I bet she’s worried about you too.” He can tell he’s hit the mark by Kira's immediate exasperation.

“She tried to get me to see a Starfleet counselor. I told her I’d talk to a prylar and that was as much as she was going to get.”

Julian smiles, feeling slightly sorry for Ezri. In theory, they all know that her work is vital and necessary. In practice, she might have more luck safeguarding the mental health of a herd of kolar beasts.

“I take it the meeting with Iliana didn’t go well?” Julian guesses.

Kira’s hand clenches, tightening her grip on the baseball.

“She thinks she’s a Bajoran freedom fighter, and I showed up to tell her that her whole life was a lie and she’s one of the people she most despises. How do you think it went?”

Julian pictures two of Kira Nerys facing off, and it brings back an unpleasant image of the Intendant and the Mirror Universe. He exhales slowly and sets the memory aside.

“She didn’t believe you?”

Kira snatches up the baseball and squeezes it in both hands. No wonder she had tried to direct her anger at Julian; she’s more upset about Iliana than she wanted to let on.

“When the Order kidnapped me, they had everything at their disposal. A drug to recover memories, videos she recorded, her childhood bedroom. All I had to give her was a piece of jewelry and the confession of a dying man. Would you have believed me?”

For a second, Julian considers the question. Truthfully, he doesn’t know, so he sticks with certainties.

“I could do a genetic scan. The surgeries are convincing, but she won’t be Bajoran on a cellular level.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Kira waves off the offer. “Even if she did believe me, her family is dead. Her homeworld is destroyed. Maybe she’s better off like this.”

Julian thinks guiltily of Garak, back on Cardassia, and tries to remind himself that Garak has made friends, that he isn’t alone.

It’s a terrible situation, a terrible time to be Cardassian. Would Iliana be better off not knowing?

“You did the right thing,” Julian says, because he knows Kira wants to.

“I owed it to Tekeny.”

Julian remembers Tekeny Ghemor. His death was the first time Julian saw Kira cry.

He wants to ask if she visited Ghemor’s grave, alongside her father’s, while she was on Bajor, but perhaps she wouldn’t want Julian to bring them up.

“Did you get the chance to do anything else while you were down on the surface?” he asks instead. This way, she can decide what she wants to discuss.

“I visited Shakaar.” Kira sets the baseball down on its stand with a frown. “He offered me the position of ambassador to Cardassia.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him that I’m not going back there. I’ve fought my entire life for a free Bajor, and when I thought that I was going to die on Cardassia Prime of all places…” Her eyes burn. It isn’t anger, but it’s just as intense. “They’ll have to find someone else to clean up their messes for them.”

Julian decides that this is not the time to talk about the inadequate aid. He sees the distinct parallels between Bajor at the end of the Occupation and Cardassia now that the Dominion has withdrawn, but he doesn’t know how to point them out to Kira. He certainly isn’t the right person to try and do so, if even Shakaar couldn’t. Knowing Kira, it’s a conclusion she’ll have to come to on her own.

“Will you stay on the station?”

“That’s the plan, since Starfleet won’t be sending in a new commander.”

“They aren’t replacing Sisko?”

Kira shakes her head, but it’s less of a response to his question and more of a wondering, as if she can’t believe she has to answer that.

“There’s a lot you’ve missed, Doctor.”

A sense of professional responsibility inside Julian squirms.

“I’m here now.”

“We’ve elected a new kai.”

What that has to do with Starfleet not sending in a new station commander, Julian can’t begin to imagine, but he follows Kira’s lead. He casts his mind back to the end of the war, when the treaty was being negotiated and he thought things with Ezri could really work out.

“Was it Ungtae after all? She was Quark’s pick before you shut down the betting pool,” Julian recalls.

“He was right,” Kira responds, looking sour about the fact. “She won almost unanimously, and she’s promised to maintain Bajoran peace and independence.”

“That sounds like a good thing,” Julian says cautiously, looking for the catch.

“The Vedek Assembly thought so. But her way of achieving it is to refuse to join the Federation.”

“Very peaceful,” Julian observes with raised eyebrows.

“Being a member of the Federation means fighting your wars.”

“And being protected with all the resources of the Federation, if someone else gets it in their head to attack you. Isn’t that why Bajor wanted Starfleet on the station in the first place?” Julian can think of several good criticisms of the Federation, but he’s fairly certain that they have not been the instigator in any of their recent conflicts.

“Yes, back before we had a real government,” Kira reminds him. “Now, Bajor has fewer enemies than ever. The Cardassians are nearly destroyed. Maybe the Klingons would have tried something under Gowron, but they’re back in the Khitomer Accords, and Chancellor Martok won’t break it. We have a treaty with the Dominion, and Odo will make sure they honor it. It might be time for us to stand on our own.”

Julian thinks he recognizes some of what is currently radiating out of Kira: pride. Pride that her people have come so far. He is happy for her, but feels his own pangs of sadness as well. Deep Space 9 was his first home, more than his parents or the academy ever were. He can’t reconcile himself with the idea of losing it.

“I can’t imagine Starfleet would give up control of the wormhole.” Technically, it has always been Bajor’s wormhole, but one would have to be truly oblivious not to see the Federation’s proprietary attitude towards it. Kira reaches up, a light touch on her earring, her own connection to the Prophets. He wonders if she is doing so consciously, or if it’s a result of the fact that, for her, the wormhole will always be the Celestial Temple.

“Nothing official has happened yet. The First Minister and the Kai would have to agree, and that won’t happen for a while. But the Federation knows what Ungtae is pushing for, and as far as we can tell they’ve started to pull out. Unexpected transfer orders, no new crew assignments, that kind of thing. I think it’s supposed to call Ungtae’s bluff, and make her realize we need Starfleet on the station.”

If that’s the plan, Kira doesn’t sound particularly convinced. Julian certainly isn’t. If the point is to prove their usefulness, premature withdrawal seems unlikely to do so.

“I’m guessing you don’t think it will work.”

“No, I don’t. But I do think you’re going to get new orders.” Kira glances over her shoulder, eyes locked for a moment on distant stars. “I wanted the chance to tell you myself, before some admiral tracked you down on Cardassia.”

Would they have gone to all that trouble, Julian wonders, or would they simply have left him behind? He's an inconvenient reminder of things that Starfleet Command would rather forget, and he has had some practice now in being left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially didn't intend to do the politics piece, but I couldn't resist that age-old question: Does Bajor join the Federation?


	29. Greatest Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cultural exchange continues over letters with poetry and Cardassian graffiti.

_Garak,_

_I think it’s my turn to give you something to read. I’ve decided on poetry, and you can tell me it’s useless if you like, but most poetry isn’t written with the goal of being useful. Even Iloja of Prim would agree with that._

_I’m sending you an early 21 st century poet named Ilya Kaminsky. He left his home when he was young to live in another nation state, and his home underwent a great period of change during his absence. He wrote, “The country I left does not exist anywhere except in my imagination. Which is, perhaps, a good thing.”_

_This collection is called “Deaf Republic,” and I demand your opinion._

_-Julian_

_My dear doctor,_

_I have finished the first poem, “We Lived Happily During the War,” and it makes your species sound like Ferengi. Perhaps Quark was right after all, and humans dislike Ferengi only because they remind you too much of yourselves. Tell me, do you think that the poem describes the experience on Earth during our recent conflict?_

_Do not think I missed the reference to forgiveness. I see you remain quite taken with the subject._

_Once more, I offer you the greatest my city has to offer. Look at it, and then read the explanation._

In large letters on the side of a wall, the computer offers two possible translations: CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL or ADMIT FOR THE GOOD OF YOUR SPIRIT. All around it, written in various hands, scrawled Cardassian that the computer will require more time to process.

_Once more, I give you the greatest my city has to offer. Look at it, and then read the explanation. It is a well-known saying of our conservators, when criminals are given their chance to admit their wrongdoings in trial. Your Mr. O’Brien is no doubt familiar with the phrase._

_As you can see, my people seem to feel that they need to confess a good deal. I leave you to imagine why that might be._

_Be mindful of the length of your response. I know you have passionate opinions about our legal system, but it wouldn’t do to overload the computer._

_-Garak_

_Garak,_

_I notice you didn’t have anything to say about Kaminsky’s quote. If we were in person, you wouldn’t be able to get away with ignoring it. It’s harder to discuss literature over letters, but this will have to do until we can have lunch again._

_We were like Ferengi at the time in some ways. Certainly the obsession with money was there. There may be some truth to what Quark said, but I think it’s also worth noting that all first encounters between the Federation and Ferengi were hostile before we even understood each other’s cultures._

_Do I think the poem describes Earth during the war? Not exactly, between the Breen attack and the Changeling infiltration. It reminds me more of Earth as it stands now. The civilians who must think that it’s all over, not realizing how much damage is still to be repaired. We may have abolished currency, but we have not forgotten how to turn a blind eye to suffering._

_I still intend to get Federation aid to Cardassia. And before you start in on me, I’m setting up an auto-flagging filter so that if your response includes the word “naivete,” it will be automatically deleted._

_With regards to the artwork you sent me, I wonder if your people are putting themselves on trial. Your response, when we first learned the casualty count, was to wonder if Cardassia deserved it. Perhaps others are asking the same question._

_I’m working on translating the confessions. Did you write one?_

_I do have passionate opinions about your legal system, but I also have hope you’ll create a new one, if you ever figure out democracy._

_You didn’t ask about the station. Is that because you didn’t want to be told, or you don’t want to know? You’ll have to forgive me for the blatant question, but subtlety is even harder in writing than it is in person._

_-Julian_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came across Kaminsky's interviews and poems while working on this fic, and felt a good deal of resonance about trauma and exile and living in the aftermath. I may write a one-shot some day that's just the two of them discussing Kaminsky, but this will suffice in the meantime.  
> One poem I wanted to include but ended up not using is only two lines and is called "Question":  
> “What is a man?  
> A quiet between two bombardments.”


	30. Miles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without Garak to talk to, Julian tries to figure out how to deal with his guilt and fear.

Julian envies Kira’s clarity. Even in times of hardship and heartache, she has faith that the Prophets have a plan for her life and for Bajor. When she can’t see it, she meditates and prays and relies on them for strength and guidance.

Intellectually, he knows it isn’t simple or easy, that her faith takes work and daily effort. But he still finds himself wishing he could do the same.

He’s tried, in the past. He couldn’t reconcile himself with viewing the wormhole aliens as deities; he had too many questions about their history and the nature of their existence and their relationship to Bajor and the pah wraiths. Sisko joining them has increased Julian’s curiosity, but it also means he will never really be able to see them as gods.

He could try a human religion. His mother had been religious, until she was made a choice between belief in the sanctity of creation and the chance to have absolute control over her son’s destiny. Julian talked to her about it, once, but then she started to cry and he hastily changed the subject. He can’t handle the weight of her tears on top of his own pain.

Ezri’s advice is to talk to a counselor. Julian isn’t going to do that, isn’t going to put someone else in danger with knowledge that could kill them, but his time with Garak showed him that there is relief in being able to put his experiences into words, and have someone hear them.

He wishes he could talk to Garak, but he can’t. The letters have to suffice (which they don’t, but if Julian lets himself begin to dwell on Garak he won’t be able to think on anything else).

He doesn’t want to talk with Ezri about it, and he isn’t sure how Kira would react.

If things were normal, Julian would talk to Miles. But Miles is on Earth, being a professor, and Julian doesn’t want to bother him.

 _He said you could_ , reminds a persistent little voice inside Julian’s mind. Which is all very well and good, except what if Miles didn’t actually mean it? Or he did mean it, and he changed his mind? There’s time differences to consider, he has work and family, he won’t have time to listen to Julian’s paranoia.

 _He was there with Sloan, too_ , says the little voice. Again, that’s true, but Miles isn’t a doctor, he didn’t swear to first do no harm, it didn’t affect him the way it has Julian.

 _You’re the one who convinced him to get therapy after the Argrathi prison_.

Well, that’s… Julian has a harder time arguing with that point.

This is ridiculous. He can’t argue with himself forever, and he doesn’t want to, nor does he want to get back to the point he was at when he fled the station.

Julian perches himself at the computer terminal in his quarters, holds his breath, and inputs the command to call Miles before he can talk himself out of it.

The face that answers the screen isn’t what Julian expected. Instead, it’s a pair of enormous dark eyes beneath a fringe of bangs, impossibly zoomed in. She must be holding her face as close to the monitor as she can.

“Julian!” Molly chirps. He grins.

“Hi, Molly. Is your dad there?”

He can hear Keiko’s voice off-screen.

“Sweetie, you know you don’t have to sit that close to the screen. He probably can barely see you. Try moving further back.”

“Okay, Mommy.” The face pulls away, abruptly revealing the room behind. Sunshine falls on a light blue wall in the background, hung with colorful scribbles that must be Molly’s. It’s as different a space from the dark, heavy architecture of Deep Space 9 as can be imagined.

Keiko comes into view, bouncing Yoshi in her arms.

“Good morning, Julian. It’s nice to see you.”

It isn’t morning out in deep space, but Julian couldn’t care less. Seeing the O’Briens feels like drinking a hot Fanalian toddy, honeyed warmth spreading to his toes.

“Julian, look at my picture! It’s the wormhole.” Molly turns around to indicate the wall behind her, and Julian sees that her hair was been cut short, all the way up to her shoulders. It gives him a funny little pang to notice.

“Well done! It looks just like the real thing.”

“Molly, why don’t you go tell your dad that there’s a call for him,” Keiko suggests. Molly nods and slips off-screen.

“How is she doing with the transition?” Julian asks. Keiko laughs.

“Better than Miles, honestly. She’s happy to be around other children her own age. Although she does miss having more people to speak Bajoran with. We’re trying to set up a pen pal program with her school and one on Bajor, so she doesn’t feel like she’s lost that connection.” Keiko leans in conspiratorially. “I can hear Miles coming, and I know he might not say it himself, but you should know that he’s missed you, Julian.”

Something unclenches in Julian’s stomach and knots itself in his throat instead. He swallows hard over the lump.

“I’ve missed him too.”

“Julian?” Miles comes in from the right of the screen. “Took you long enough to call!”

Keiko winks at Julian and leaves the two of them alone.

“I only just got back to the station, Miles.”

“That’s another thing. I had to hear it from Ezri that you went gallivanting off to Cardassia. When were you planning to tell me?”

“I assumed you were busy teaching all the cadets how to not injure themselves with self-sealing stem bolts.”

“It’s a job, Julian, not a life sentence. I can still take a subspace call every once in a while.”

Julian can sense the edge of tears, pressure building behind his eyes, and willfully forces it back down. He feels foolishly relieved. Miles still likes him! He hasn’t lost this friendship.

“Speaking of life sentence, that’s sort of… related to what I was calling about.”

“What the hell did you do?”

Julian almost laughs at the alarm in Miles’ voice.

“Sorry, that was a poor start. I’m not in prison, I promise. I was just thinking. About Argratha.”

“Oh.” Storm clouds blight Miles’ expression. Julian fidgets.

“Well, really I’ve been thinking about what we did on the station. Before the end of the war. When we… is this an encrypted line?”

Miles raises an eyebrow.

“Should it be?”

“I want to talk about-” Julian lowers his voice- “Section 31.”

To his surprise, Miles scoffs.

“Too late for an encrypted line there. If you knowing about them bothered them, they shouldn’t have let you go from the simulation.”

“Sloan thought he had recruited me.”

“And then you went on to tell the entire senior staff. Sloan knew perfectly well that you’d done it, after Sisko sent in that inquiry to Headquarters.”

It’s Julian’s turn for surprise. Somehow, in the anxiety he’s developed around protecting others from the secret, he had forgotten that. He tries to rally.

“Still, I don’t want to put anyone in danger.”

“It’s a little too late for that, isn’t it? They know we know, and we know they know we know.” It’s the sort of sentence the universal translator would struggle to parse, but Julian understands immediately.

“Aren’t you worried?” he insists, disbelieving. “I can’t imagine they take the risk of being exposed lightly.”

“No, but they’re not about to kill all of us,” Miles responds reasonably. “If they just went after you, I’d be suspicious. If anything happened to me, Keiko would know if something was off about it. She did with T’Lani Prime, didn’t she? They’d have to get rid of you, me, and Keiko, and then Kira would probably get involved. You know if anything happened to Kira, they’d have the whole of the Great Link and everyone who’s left of the Bajoran resistance investigating. It wouldn’t be worth it.” Noting Julian’s silence, Miles adds, “Keiko and I have talked a lot about this. We wouldn’t have moved to Earth if we thought Section 31 was going to try anything.”

He is far too calm about it for Julian’s tastes.

“We killed Sloan,” Julian reminds him, and Miles’ face softens.

“Now I see why you were thinking about the Argrathi.” Julian nods mutely. “I’m going to tell you what you told me, Julian. It’s the regretting what you’ve done that shows you’re a good person. But you can’t get stuck in hating yourself. You can’t let that one moment define you.”

It was much easier to say to Miles, years ago, than it is for Julian now to believe it himself.

“It isn’t just one moment, though, is it? I was supposed to be a doctor, not a soldier. I never wanted to kill anyone, and I’ve blown up entire ships.”

Mercifully, Miles does not quibble about levels of accountability. He remains directly at the heart of the matter.

“War does that to people. It brings out the worse in us. That’s why I couldn’t stand Cardassians, after Setlik III. It wasn’t what they’d done. It was what they turned me into.”

Julian runs a tired hand over his face.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he confesses.

“You can’t fix everything. Take it from an engineer,” Miles advises. “Sometimes the only thing you can do is figure out what to build instead.”

How can you build something new when all the pieces are still broken?

“When I was on Cardassia, I asked Garak what he thought it would take to bring Section 31 down.”

Miles looks skeptical as soon as Garak is mentioned.

“What did he say?”

“That it would take decades of work from the inside, and even if I could manage it, it wouldn’t be worth it for everything I’d have to give up.” Julian sort of hopes Miles will disagree, will tell him that it will undo the harm he’s done and he should try.

It’s an empty hope.

“He’s right,” Miles says bluntly. “Punishing yourself won’t solve anything.”

Is that what Julian is doing? Trying to make himself a martyr?

“I just want to make this better,” he says helplessly. “The Federation is letting Section 31 run amok, Cardassia’s in ruins, and I don’t know how to help.”

He blinks rapidly against the prickling of tears.

“I don’t know exactly what you should do, Julian. But I think talking to your friends is a good start.” Miles clears his throat. “We’ve been worried about you, you know.”

Julian nods. Miles’ awkward assurances of affection are a great constant in an ever-changing universe.

“I know,” Julian replies. He knows that his friends have worried, and he knows that Miles is expressing love in the best way he can. “The trip to Cardassia was good for me, though. Garak helped.”

“Can’t imagine how,” Miles mumbles.

Julian has long since come to believe that Miles and Garak actually hold grudging respect for one another, but both plan to die without admitting it. As such, their sniping is empty posturing, and Julian generally ignores it.

“I might go back there. I haven’t decided.”

“What about the station?”

Julian had grown up moving whenever his father needed a new job, never forming a particular attachment to any one place. He will be sad to lose the station, his home of almost a decade… But if he’s being honest, with almost everyone else gone, that home is already lost. Without his found family populating it, Deep Space 9 feels like a hollow shell.

“Kira thinks I’ll be getting transfer orders soon.” Ezri already has. She told Julian so earlier in the day, over a breakfast that was only mildly uncomfortable, and then only because the replimat always made Julian think about Garak.

“You can always come back to Earth, you know. I’d put in a good word for you,” Miles assures him. “You have options.”

Julian feels a strong and useless urge to hug Miles as hard as he can. Since they’re lightyears apart, he has to settle for a smile and a promise.

“Even if I end up on Cardassia, I’ll write you this time. And I’ll still come to Earth to visit.”

“You had better. How else am I going to beat you at darts?”

“Daddy!” Molly’s face pops up again onscreen. “I brought more of my pictures to show Julian!”

She holds up a sheaf of papers in her arms. Miles looks sheepish as Julian laughs.

“I’d love to see them,” he tells her. “What else are friends for?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A social support network should be larger than one person. Julian needs to remember how many people are in his.


	31. Natima

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak reunites with a familiar face

“Congratulations. That was a lovely speech.”

Garak immediately recognizes the mellifluous voice of Professor Natima Lang. It’s been years since they met in person aboard the station, but he had made it a point to track her as she traveled. Lecturing about political ethics on Vulcan, smuggling for the Cardassian underground, reuniting with the Cardassian expatriate community taking asylum with the Mathenites, providing testimony in the Federation’s decision not to recognize the puppet government headed by Dukat… Garak has been impressed, although he cannot deny a certain amount of resentment towards someone who would voluntarily go into exile, when he would have done almost anything to return.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Professor Lang. Welcome back to Cardassia.” He selects a customer service smile and bows. “And you, Miss Rekelen. If I remember correctly, there should be a young man with you as well. Mister Hogue, I believe?”

Garak knows perfectly well what happened to Hogue, and Natima most likely suspects that he knows. Rekelen is the one who answers.

“He came back too soon, after the Detapa Council’s coup. He thought they’d forgive those who were exiled by Central Command.” Rekelen’s posture and voice are at odds. She keeps her head bowed and her hands clasped in front of her, but she speaks with confidence and anger.

“How unfortunate. My condolences on your loss.” Privately, he thinks it’s a mistake only an idealist living off of Cardassia would have made. The civilian government had no more love for dissidents than the military had.

“It’s strange to be back, after so long in exile.” Natima watches him with piercing eyes. “I wonder if the people are different now.

Garak brightens. He appreciates a Cardassian who knows how to play the conversation game.

“In appearances, perhaps. But I like to think that when it comes down to the essentials, we remain unchanged.”

“I see.” Natima exchanges a quick glance with Rekelen, who seems to understand a silent cue and picks up the thread of the conversation.

“You know, we stopped at Deep Space 9 on our way here.”

That’s a dangerous beginning, because it might lead to thoughts of Bashir, so Garak does what he does best: strikes out at someone else’s vulnerabilities before they can touch on his.

“How is our old friend Quark doing these days?” He addresses the question to Natima, who boldly meets his stare. “I see he decided not to join you.”

“He can help support the restoration with resources he has on the station,” Natima replies coolly. Garak imagines that was her idea, and they probably had no little fight about it. He has it on good authority that she shot Quark during their last quarrel. (Although Garak is certainly in no place to judge, having also been shot by the object of his affections.)

“How generous of him.” Garak inclines his head slightly on that operative word _generous._

“Yes. He told me an interesting story, too, about a Cardassian exile who lived on the station for a while.”

“I think I’ve heard of him as well. Very disreputable, I’ve been told.” Garak can think of many things Quark might have disclosed to Natima, ranging from his service to Starfleet to his past in the Obsidian Order.

“He may have been disreputable, but he saved my life once.” Natima’s eyes flicker to Rekelen. “Our lives. He let us go when the military found us.”

“How unlike him.”

“At the time, I thought he did it out of spite,” Rekelen says pointedly. “Because a gul broke a promise, and he realized he was trapped on the station.”

“That would make anyone angry,” Garak responds neutrally. In truth, he had vaporized Gul Toran in a haze of implant-influenced chemicals, fury subsumed by artificial bliss.

Do Natima and Rekelen plan to expose him? The news that Central Command considered him a disgrace might boost his popularity in the current climate, but the revelation of his time as an Order agent will never be met with joy.

“Quark told us a different story. He said this exile let us go out of a love for Cardassia,” Natima recounts. “Quark didn’t understand it, but we did. Someone who truly loves the state would do anything to ensure it the best possible future.”

Garak had told Quark that, hadn’t he? It was even true.

Also true, of course, was that Garak had realized Tain wouldn’t care if he turned in a trio of dissidents, and only Tain could reverse Garak’s sentence.

Selfishness and service to the state coincide far more often than Garak is generally willing to admit.

“A noble sentiment.” Garak changes out his customer service smile for a softer one.

“I think it’s just the kind of sentiment we need for a freer, more democratic Cardassia.”

Ah, democracy. That thorn in Garak’s side, although he’s been assured the thorny stem will bloom.

“You’ll be pleased to hear that we are electing sector representatives to a city council,” he informs the two. Not as satisfactory as progress towards a unified planetary government would have been- or even a unified continent- but it is at least something.

Rekelen’s smile bursts in a flash and then dissipates almost immediately, like lightning, but Garak catches it all the same. Natima’s own expression is more subdued, but she lets it linger as she speaks.

“Will you be running?”

“I’ve considered it. If Paldar Sector will accept someone of my disreputable nature.”

“That’s the beauty of democracy. You can always try, and the people will decide.” Natima holds out her hand, fingers pointing to the sky, palm facing Garak.

Bold, for a first meeting (or, technically, second). In public, no less. It feels like a challenge. Is he willing to commit to her, and to this future?

Rekelen frowns. She clearly has more open reservations about friendship with Garak than Natima does. Good. Someone has to retain the correct amount of suspicion towards him, or he’ll begin to get complacent.

Garak lightly holds his hand against Natima’s, close enough to make contact but not truly pressing in. A less forward move, but she still looks satisfied.

“It was good to see you again, Mister Garak. I expect we’ll be working together closely in the future.”

Natima and Rekelen move on, to mingle in the crowd, leaving Garak to look at his own hand.

He hasn’t done that gesture with anyone, let alone another Cardassian, since the death of Ziyal.

It’s ironic. A life lived on _never let sentiment get in the way of your work_ and _sentiment is the greatest weakness of all_ , and a moment of sentiment seems to have earned him nascent trust from a woman who may one day run the Cardassian Union.


	32. The Admiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian gets a call from a familiar face with his new orders

Ten minutes.

Julian squints at the monitor in frustration. He has been using the graffiti Garak sent to practice his skills in translating from Cardassian to Federation Standard, but it is slow going and more difficult with the variability of handwriting than with uniform typed characters.

So far, he has achieved reasonable certainty on three confessions: _“_ _I pretended not to hear her shri-tal.” “The baby wasn’t his.” “_ _I left them alone.”_

Julian is curious about the stories behind the statements, what drove these people to the choices they made. Did they write in daylight, when anyone passing by could see? Or did they wait until nightfall, too ashamed to lose anonymity but needing to admit? He tries to understand the emergence of a public confessional in a society known for privacy and evasiveness.

Julian wonders if one of these is Garak’s.

He looks at the chronometer again. Five minutes. He should put this away, but there’s nothing to do or prepare, and if he sits idle for five minutes he’ll go mad.

 _I --- him_. This one is only three words, but difficult. Julian doesn’t recognize the middle word, and the tense markers are off, present instead of past. Unless it’s an irregular verb?

Three minutes to go. He could run a cross-reference through the Cardassian literature Garak’s given him, see if he can make meaning of the word in greater context. The sentence structures aren’t exactly the same between languages, not a word-for-word equivalency, but he can look at the Cardassian and the Federation Standard side by side and begin to get a sense. _The Never-Ending Sacrifice_ , being nearly never-ending, contains almost every non-medical word that Julian has tried to learn so far.

“Computer, begin a search of-”

“Incoming message from Starfleet Command,” the mechanical voice interrupts him, and Julian bites down on his tongue. He’s run out of time.

“Put it through.” He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and plants his feet firmly on the ground. He can do this.

The image of Cardassian graffiti disappears, replaced by a stern face, fair hair, and a collar full of pips. Of course it would be this one, the one whose only interaction with Julian was ordering the crew not to go after Garak and Odo in the Gamma Quadrant (as if they were going to follow that command).

“Admiral,” Julian greets him.

“Good to see you again, Doctor Bashir.” Admiral Toddman nods briskly. “Well, I won’t mince words.”

This is it. Julian braces for impact. A science vessel in the Delta Quadrant, a research posting- somewhere safe and out of the way for Starfleet’s genetically engineered embarrassment.

“You’re being promoted.”

That is not what Julian expected. He can only stare, goggle-eyed as a goldfish, as Toddman continues.

“It’s not official yet, but I’ve filed the paperwork myself. This time next week, you’ll be a lieutenant commander. Congratulations.”

“Th-thank you, sir.” Agog, Julian barely manages to stammer out his response. After his parents left the station, he assumed he’d never receive another promotion again.

“You seem surprised.”

“It- it’s just rather sudden, that’s all. I’ve only been back on the station a couple of days, sir.”

“That’s right, I heard you were taking leave in Cardassia.” Toddman shifts in his seat, revealing more of his side profile. “How are things down there?”

Julian has never liked Admiral Toddman, and the casual manner in which the question is asked rubs him the wrong way.

“Bad,” he answers crisply. “Very bad.”

Toddman isn’t put off by his reticence.

“I heard they’re struggling to put together a government.”

“Of course they are. The civilians have never had a say before, and after the rebellion they’re determined not to give it up. I understand there was something of a witch hunt for Dominion collaborators, and that removed from power most of the officials who signed the Treaty of Bajor.”

“So there’s no planetary government at all?”

“How could there be? Most of the communication infrastructure was destroyed, either by the bombings or rebellion sabotage.” Julian can hear himself getting louder, but he can’t help it. “Most of the citizens don’t have adequate food or shelter, and there’s no consistent power anywhere on the planet. It’s a disaster zone, and they need help if they’re going to survive.”

“The Federation is doing everything it can,” Toddman says, which is patently false. “But we have to prioritize our own member worlds first. Why do you think we’re shifting so many personnel away from Bajor?”

“Because the new kai wants nothing to do with Starfleet.” Julian sees no point in pretending otherwise. “And I’m not talking about Bajor, I’m talking about sending relief to Cardassia.”

“There’s nothing the Aid Bureau can do until we can enter into a formal diplomatic agreement, and that won’t happen if there’s no unified government.” It’s Toddman’s stony expression that most bothers Julian. There’s no hint of sympathy, or even shame.

“That’s cruel, and you know it. What about our ideals, what about intergalactic peace and cooperation?”

“The Federation is generous, Dr. Bashir, but even our resources are limited. We do everything we can.”

The molten anger inside Julian explodes.

“The hell we do! You sit on your hands while Section 31 violates every principle up to the Prime Directive, and you’re willing to let millions of Cardassians die because they don’t want to join the club.”

Toddman’s eyes flash.

“There is no such thing as Section 31.”

“That’s what Admiral Ross said, too, until it was convenient for him for them to exist.”

“Careful, Dr. Bashir. Conspiracy theorists don’t win Carrington Awards.” His voice is steely. “Cardassia will get aid when they are able to formally petition for it. In your opinion, as someone who has been on the planet, is there any faction most likely to take control?”

The anger inside Julian cools into something icy and hard. Despite Kira’s incredulity, he never questioned why Starfleet allowed him extended leave on short notice. He had seen active combat duty, he rarely used leave time- and in his haste to leave the station as quickly as possible, it hadn’t seemed prudent to question a needed gift.

Now, a new thought is forming. What if they approved his request for another reason entirely?

“I’m not a spy,” Julian says, voice sharp and quiet.

“No, you’re a doctor who needs a new commission. And I’m prepared to offer you one.”

This is when the other shoe drops, Julian thinks. Maybe the promotion is meant to twist the knife in the wound, Lieutenant Commander in a worthless position.

Perhaps he should say something. What is there to say? He could apologize for losing his temper, but he isn’t sorry for the thoughts expressed.

Realizing that Julian isn’t going to speak, Toddman resumes.

“How would you like to join the crew of the Enterprise?”

It’s a joke. It must be.

“You’re offering me the flagship?”

“Dr. Crusher has been appointed director of the Aid Bureau, and her second in command is the new CMO. They’ll need more hands in Sick Bay.”

Julian’s mind races. Why? He’s a liability, a threat. Why offer him rank and one of the best positions in the fleet?

It’s certainly not a reward. Toddman’s insinuation that speaking out about Section 31 will damage his career is exactly the kind of threat Julian was expecting, and his comments about Cardassia have not endeared him to the admiral.

There’s no one advocating for him at headquarters, Julian is fairly sure. Even Rear Admiral Bennett, the one who allowed him to keep his license after the revelation of his DNA resequencing, is neutral at best towards Julian personally.

What does that leave? Why give Julian what an augment is not supposed to have, especially one apparently determined to badmouth the Federation?

It is noteworthy that he’d be replacing someone working on relief efforts, placing Julian as far away from influencing them as possible.

“You want me on the Enterprise,” he repeats.

“You’ve always had promise, Doctor Bashir. It would be a shame to see you throw it away.”

A bribe. Everything you thought you wanted, in exchange for your silence. Promotion at the price of your conscience.

Out of view of the screen, Julian curls his fingers to grip the edge of the table, feeling as if he’s hanging on for dear life.

“I’ll think about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I started teaching yesterday and I am exhausted, but this wonderful community continues to bring me joy and I'm going to try to stick to my usual update schedule.


	33. Pursuit of Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life on Cardassia continues.

“Between you and Dr. Parmak, it seems most of my visitors are from Akleen Hospital. It’s a wonder anything gets done over there.” This is Garak’s version of a friendly greeting, and Siana does not take offense. Yaltar, prodding budding succulents, snorts but says nothing. Her attention chastens Garak; he hadn’t meant the greeting to be flirtatious, but irritability between genders is often misconstrued.

“They got one of the replicators working,” Siana explains. “Only briefly, but I made sure we got these first.”

She shifts the basket of seedlings on her hip.

“I can’t imagine my plants take precedence over medicine.” If they do, Garak will need to have some serious words with the hospital staff about their priorities.

“They’re old herbal remedies. I want to have some kind of backup, since our supplies are running low. Talla leaf tea isn’t as effective a painkiller as triptacederine, but at least it will be something, and if we only take the leaves then the bush can last for years.”

“How thoughtful.” Garak knows it will take a long time for the sprout to earn the name of bush. He privately hopes the replicators are restored to full functionality long before that.

“Be careful with them. The thorns on that one had a disagreement with my sleeve.” She hands the basket to Garak, then lifts her forearm to demonstrate the tear.

There is no harm in plying the former trade, Garak reasons. He can be easily tied to the station even without the revelation that he once was a tailor, and if someone is inclined to hold his service class status against him, they can use his gardening to do so.

“I would be happy to repair that for you, if you wish.”

Siana makes arrangements for Garak to repair her dress before she leaves, and he can feel Yaltar’s stare burning into his scales all the while.

“Her husband was in the military, you know,” Yaltar comments once Siana has departed.

Not an auspicious beginning.

“I’ll try not to hold that against her.”

“She isn’t alone. I expect there’s a planet-wide shortage of men.”

“How fortunate for the women.” Garak thinks a dearth of military men is probably a gift to Cardassia Prime. He’s never walked into a room and wished there were more guls present, or needed a problem solved and thought ‘ _if only there were a soldier around_.’ The ones who have survived certainly have not endeared themselves to him.

“And for the men who remain,” Yaltar hints, less-than-sublty.

“I’m sure Dr. Parmak will take full advantage of the situation.”

Garak gives every appearance of being busy with the new medicinal plants, but in reality he closely watches Yaltar’s shrewd expression in his peripheral vision.

“Only human men for you, then, Garak?”

There are several ways to handle someone attempting a discussion you don’t want to pursue. Threatening is one; Garak always found that particularly effective with Quark. Turning their own vulnerabilities against them is another; needling Odo about Kira had been quite successful in preventing uncomfortable questions about Tain.

These strategies also tend to have the effect of shutting down conversation entirely, Natima Lang notwithstanding. If Garak is going to make friends, as Julian so tritely put it, a new technique will be needed.

“No, I’m afraid I’m simply hopelessly in love with you and can accept no substitute.” He smiles meltingly at her.

“Flatterer,” Yaltar scoffs, but she does not ask again. Garak considers this a success.

They work in silence for a spell, carefully meting out water where needed. Garak is pleasantly surprised to see weeds beginning to grow, a sign that Cardassia is not beyond repairing itself.

The silence is companionable, and Garak is feeling almost content by the time Yaltar speaks again.

“You don’t like answering questions, do you, Garak?”

The opportunity is perfectly supplied, so he merely smiles and lets that suffice.

“Same as the man who used to live here,” she remarks.

A cold hand squeezes Garak’s heart.

“Did you know him?”

“No, that was before I moved to the city. I only heard the neighbors talk about him. Very nice man, by all accounts, but when it came down to it nobody knew anything about him. Some kind of government job, I think, but he retired and the house was empty for several years. When he died, he left it to his housekeeper, and she came back to live in it.”

Garak looks down at the careful furrows, the seedlings and sprouts and strange succulents from another world. The garden is Mila’s tombstone, above the cellar that is her grave. He thinks it’s a better monument than the house would have been, its walls full of secrets and unhappy memories.

“You did know the housekeeper,” he infers.

“I only met her a few times. I thought she seemed like a fine woman. Clever, no nonsense. But you know that already, don’t you? After all, I can’t imagine you’d do all this to a house you had no claim to.”

That shows a lack of imagination, in Garak’s opinion, but he doesn’t want to outright dispute the claim in case he some day does need to prove legal ownership, if there is ever a functioning government to worry about such niceties.

Yaltar shades her eyes with her hand and looks up to the hazy sky, at the sun that feels so bright to Garak but Julian considered unusually dim. Things can look so different, depending on whose eyes are seeing.

“It’s none of my business, of course,” she says, and it’s nearly gentle. “I was only thinking about how we’ve all lost someone. A husband, a son… With so much sadness, it seems a shame not to go after the things that make us happy.”

“That’s hardly a Cardassian attitude.” In fact, it sounds almost Federation.

Yaltar turns brisk once more.

“I’ve been a Cardassian for seventy years. Any attitude I have is a Cardassian attitude, young man.”

Garak is not young, and sometimes doubts that he ever was, but bows acquiescence.

“Of course.”

Perhaps it isn't a shame to seek happiness, but Garak is determined to respect that his preferred source of happiness has other plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week I came across “The Gardener” by unreal_kitty. It's a great character exploration of Garak that distills perfectly everything I was trying to do, particularly with these beautiful lines: "I grow everything I can, but there are some things beyond my skill. I can't grow flesh from bone, solace from grief. But I can grow orchids in the desert. I will grow redemption in the dust."


	34. Racquetball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian contemplates selling his soul.

Julian slams his racket into the ball, searching for relief in the sound of it slamming against the wall and the ache of his shoulder. He is not holding back. There is no need to hide, everyone already knows, Miles is long gone and doesn’t need his ego placated, there is only Julian and the muscles he has to push as hard as he can, to find the limits that remind him he might still be human.

There are numerous old human stories about selling one’s soul. They often do it for selfish reasons, for wealth or beauty or fame. Sometimes it’s for someone else, to save a lover’s life. Usually, the stories don’t end well, unless the characters are very quick and clever and manage to wriggle out through some loophole. But surviving isn’t the same as having a happy ending.

There are no happy endings in Cardassian stories. Julian always found that depressing. Real life is difficult enough without fiction as an escape from it.

He hits with all his strength, moves with all his speed, and still no amount of racquetball has succeeded in shutting off his brain.

It’s not a surprise when Ezri comes in. After all, he had told her how he planned to spend the afternoon.

It is slightly more of a surprise that she is dressed for exercise, but the racquetball court would have been repurposed by now if it wasn’t seeing some use by the station residents.

She watches him for a moment before speaking, and he lets her, trying to narrow the scope of the world to this one room, to exist in nothing but the bounce of the ball and the thwack of the racket.

“Kira offered to teach me how to play springball,” Ezri says. “Do you want to join?”

“Can’t. Wouldn’t be fair.”

To prove the point, Julian makes eye contact with her and swings his racket against the ball. It makes contact without him looking, driving directly into one of the targets marked on the walls. Muscle memory, mathematical probability, and mutant genes converging.

“Because you’re a show off?” Ezri raises her eyebrows.

“Because I’m a _freak_ ,” Julian corrects, punctuating the statement with a grunt as he once more sends the ball soaring.

“Ah.” Ezri clasps her hands behind her back and glances around, eyes flitting between the red circles. “You haven’t talked about that in a while.”

“It hasn’t come up.” Julian suspects that his status as an augment makes others uncomfortable, and it certainly isn’t a topic he wants to discuss.

“I thought maybe you had forgiven yourself.”

Julian stumbles, reaching out and catching the ball on the tip of his racket by a narrow margin.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I think that you have never forgiven yourself for being genetically engineered.”

The ball has lost some momentum since the last weakened blow. Julian lets it knock around and turns fully to Ezri, slightly breathless.

“Is this because you didn’t cure the plague on Cardassia?” she asks.

“I couldn’t cure the plague, I can’t convince the Federation to send aid, I can’t take down Section 31, I can’t save anyone or help anyone, and I don’t know what to do!”

Julian looks down at his racket, and then flings away in one sharp, sudden movement. It clatters harmlessly to the floor, unsatisfying.

“Section 31… I remember Benjamin telling Jadzia about that.”

Julian throws up his hands in frustration.

“Does _everybody_ know about it?”

“You did tell them.”

“That makes it even worse. We all know there’s a rogue agency out there accountable to no one that's routinely violating the founding principles of the Federation, and none of us have managed to do a damn thing about it.”

“Yet.” Ezri walks over to the racket and stoops to pick it up. “None of us have managed to do a thing about it _yet_. We’ve only known for a couple of years, Julian. Maybe it’s the eight lifetimes’ worth of memories talking, but that doesn’t feel like very long.”

She clasps her hands around the racket’s handle and gives it an experimental swing.

“There’s got to be a middle ground,” she adds. “Something in between you single-handedly taking down a powerful intelligence organization in only two years, and nothing ever getting done and it continuing forever.”

Julian grits his teeth. It sounds almost like something Garak might say. Not the wording, exactly, but the reminder that he has a tendency to reduce the world into black and white.

“What am I supposed to do while we figure it out?”

Ezri holds the racket out to him.

“Try and do something that makes you happy, I guess. You have a right to live your life.”

Not according to the law, he doesn’t.

Julian takes the racket from her and runs his hand along criss-crossing wires. This used to make him happy. Once, it made him so happy he thought he could turn it into a career.

“I got my transfer orders,” he admits. “The Enterprise.”

“That’s fantastic!”

Julian avoids her eyes, going after the ball which has rolled into a corner.

“I think it’s a bribe. To stop making a fuss.”

“So, you’re not going to take it?”

He has found the ball, but he doesn’t want to turn around yet, doesn’t want to see if she looks disappointed in him.

If he doesn’t take it, he worries that another opportunity will never come along. He’d be black-listed, exiled, illegal.

“I haven’t decided yet,” he confesses.

“Do you want a counselor’s advice?”

No, but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t hear it. Julian steels himself and turns around.

“Sure.”

Ezri looks less disappointed and more sympathetic. He remembers when she first arrived on the station, so uncertain and insecure, with no idea of who she was or what to do. The roles have certainly reversed themselves since.

“Lists can be very helpful. Pros and cons. Questions. Things you think will make you happy.”

Julian has heard more useful advice from Quark. He already makes lists, for all the good it has done him.

“That last one’s easy. Healing people.” Healing, helping, solving problems… The medical field wasn’t a second-best option. At his best, it makes Julian feel like he is doing tangible good in the world.

“So you should stay a doctor. What about outside of work?” He hesitates a second too long. She lowers her eyebrows. “Julian, when was the last time something outside of work made you happy?”

In his defense, circumstances have conspired against him. He cannot play darts with Miles because Miles is gone, and he cannot play his Agent Bashir holoprogram because the thought of being a spy now makes him physically ill.

The last time that something made him feel truly happy… Talking to the O’Briens over subspace. Feeling like part of a family again.

And before that?

Garak. Unequivocally Garak. Getting his letters, hearing his advice, arguing with him about books and democracy, watching him make things grow.

So Garak makes Julian happy. What is he supposed to do with that information? Julian is well aware that when he left the planet, he lost his chance.


	35. The Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian makes a home visit for Kasidy's maternity appointment.  
> Heads up that this chapter does contain description of pregnancy and associated symptoms, and if that is content you need to disengage from you can skip this and catch up next chapter.

It takes three tries before Kasidy responds to the door’s chime. Julian steps inside with a tricorder and a bright smile that he doesn’t quite feel. She greets him from the couch without getting up.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear the comm at first,” she apologizes. “I was talking to Ben.”

“Captain Sisko?” Julian glances around quizzically. “He’s… here?”

“As much as he is anywhere.”

Julian has no idea what to make of that, and Kasidy doesn’t seem about to elaborate, so he tactfully changes the subject. The intricacies of a long-distance relationship with non-linear life inside a wormhole are Kasidy and Sisko’s to work out.

“I know you’ve usually been seeing Dr. Girani, but she suggested you might enjoy a change of pace.” Julian thinks this is a diplomatic way of phrasing it, but Kasidy immediately sees right through him and laughs.

“What she really means is that she wants a break from me. We haven’t seen eye to eye since she told me to avoid space travel.” It was to be expected. Even Sisko was not allowed to stand between Kasidy and her career.

“I’m afraid I agree with her recommendation, at least until the baby is born.” No technology is a replacement for rest and staying away from warp speeds. Kasidy sighs, although she doesn’t really look as if she’d expected another answer.

“I don’t suppose I could bribe you out of that opinion,” she hints as he begins taking scans.

“Unfortunately, no. But it shouldn’t be for much longer. I’d say you’re due any day now.” That’s another thing that no amount of scientific progress seems to change. Babies are born only when they decide they are ready for it, and the convenience for the parent is not taken into consideration.

“Not soon enough. Pregnancy doesn’t have much to recommend it,” Kasidy grouses, laying one hand on her swollen stomach. She no longer experiences the frequent morning sickness that had plagued her first trimester, but it has been replaced by a host of equally unwelcome symptoms including persistent itchy, achy discomfort over most parts of her body.

Julian notes the half-full cup of tea at her side, next to an untouched plate of mapa bread. Dr. Girani’s notes had included a mention of inconsistent appetite.

“Has Jake been helping you?” He’ll have to have some serious words with the young man if not.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. You know he has a job now? He got a regular column for the Federation News Service covering the kai election.”

“You must be very proud of him.” Julian is as well. Most of the senior staff view Jake as a nephew or little brother, having watched him grow up for most of his adolescence.

“I am. Although he’s having trouble finding a new story.” Kasidy indicates scattered PADDs with a waved hand as if they are evidence of his search. “What about you? They shipping you off the station too?”

So she’s noticed the increase in transfer orders. Julian wonders if there is anyone left on DS9 who doesn’t know.

“They’ve offered.” He focuses on the tricorder, fiddling with settings that don’t need to be changed. “I haven’t decided.”

“Not the position you wanted?”

It’s less the position and more about Starfleet itself, but Julian doesn’t want to get into it, so he redirects the topic.

“I’m more concerned with getting aid to Cardassia. Miles put me in touch with Dr. Crusher, the new director of the Aid Bureau, but she said she’s been trying too and hasn’t had any luck. To get them relief without a diplomatic agreement would require a directive from the Federation Council.”

“Which they won’t give? Figures.”

Kasidy is technically a Federation citizen, but it isn’t a particularly salient aspect of her identity. Most of her life has been lived in deep space, without so much as a vacation to Earth. She is most affected by the decisions of the Bajoran government, and doesn’t consider herself bound by any other bureaucracy, her term in prison aside.

Right now, Julian finds that perspective refreshing.

“No, they won’t. They say it’s because there’s no planetary government, but the honest truth is that they want Cardassia punished for aligning with the Dominion.” Never mind the countless Cardassian citizens who risked or lost their lives to get the Dominion out, no, much better to punish the entire empire for the actions of Gul Dukat.

“You can’t blame them for having hard feelings after the war.”

“Maybe not,” Julian concedes, “but I can certainly blame them for being cruel.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m on your side.”

“Really?” He raises his eyebrows. “Even though you smuggled for the Maquis?”

“ _Because_ I ran supplies for the Maquis. I know what a blind spot the Federation has to the needs of real people. I think you’re doing the right thing trying to help the Cardassians.” Kasidy’s moral core is solid duranium, although somewhat removed from questions of legality.

Julian smiles gratefully. It never hurts to have someone say it.

“Thank you. It means a lot to hear that.”

“Does it mean enough to lift the activity restriction?” she asks teasingly. He rolls his eyes.

“Kasidy, you’re nine months pregnant. How much activity do you want to do?”

“Being cooped up in here gets old fast. I’ve read everything Jake’s written, and I’m ready for something new.”

That, at least, is a problem Julian is fully equipped to solve.

“I can send you some of my best literary recommendations.” She can probably be counted on to read them without just looking for places to start an argument, unlike certain others Julian can think of.

“It’s a start.” Kasidy turns her attention to the tea for a moment, and the conversation returns to the medical, asking and answering routine questions about her diet and symptoms. Julian’s mind wanders slightly, retreading. If even someone who worked for the Maquis can recognize that Cardassia is in need, that means good odds that others can be convinced as well.

Julian’s eyes alight on the mass of PADDs, and the idea strikes him with such force that his shoulders jerk.

“You said Jake’s looking for his next big scoop?”

“Yeah, you got one in mind?” Kasidy watches him with concern, but it isn’t needed. Julian feels better than he has in days.

“Will you do me a favor? Tell him that if he wants to look me up, I can give him a story.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's your headcanon? Do you think Sisko come back?


	36. Byline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak misses Julian. Letters arrive bearing news.

Garak’s patience erodes the longer he waits for Julian’s next letter. For years, he was accustomed to having any information he needed readily available, accessible through only a few broken encryptions or a forged access code. Now, he has no way of finding out if Section 31 has gotten Julian or if Julian has simply lost interest in him.

It would be preferable for Julian to be safe, free, alive, unharmed. But for Julian to be all of those things and not writing means that he is choosing not to contact Garak, instead of being unable to do so. Garak had thought that they were growing closer- and Julian had written, _until we can have lunch again_ , ‘until’ instead of ‘if’- but Julian has a right to choose, and that includes the right not to choose Garak.

No matter how much that hurts.

The letter, when it comes, is short, which could be an ominous sign. Yet it has two attachments. More poetry? Garak only wants to read Earth literature if it carries the promise of a discussion with Julian, not if the doctor is simply trying to discharge an obligation.

_Garak,_

_I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write again. We have a new resident on Deep Space 9. Jae Yates-Sisko is 50 centimeters, 3.5 kilograms, and, in my professional opinion as first in my class on pediatric medicine at Starfleet Medical, adorable._

_You know how frustrated I’ve been, Garak. You might be interested to know that delivering the baby was the first time in a long while that I’ve felt like a real healer. It feels like hope._

_Everyone on the station is smiling a little more now, I think. Something about the birth of the Emissary’s child improves the general Bajoran mood._

_My offering for you this time is non-fiction. Jake Sisko is writing articles for the Federation News Service, and I’ve attached two that I think will be of interest. Maybe you’ll find them more useful than short stories and poetry. There's more I could send, by him and other authors, but I think these two represent the situation best._

_-Julian_

It’s a dismissive apology, but Garak wouldn’t find more pleasure in a longer one. He notes the positive developments- an improvement in Julian’s mood, Julian settling back in to life on the station- and reminds himself that it would be selfish to resent them.

Telling himself to stop feeling something has grown curiously ineffective. He opens the first attachment.

_**Hero of Setlik III Condemns Lack of Aid to Cardassia** _

Garak skims the article quickly. There is a great deal of focus placed on Professor Miles Edward O’Brien’s sterling service record, as well as his roles in conflict with the Dominion, the Borg, and the Cardassians. The chief, it seems, has always managed to be on the right side of history.

Garak tries to put himself in the mindset of an average Federation citizen as he reads. The article seems to ask: if the hero of Setlik III is worried about the Cardassians, why aren’t you?

The quotes are a little more careful and well-considered than Garak would usually associate with the chief, but that is to be expected. After all, news articles are a kind of political theatre, and young Sisko has done admirable work. So, presumably, has Julian, since Garak doubts that O’Brien would be expressing such a strong pro-Cardassia opinion in public without some pushing.

Garak opens the other file.

_**Legends Demand Help for Cardassia: The Crew of the Enterprise Speaks Out** _

This article covers Starfleet officers with whom Garak is less familiar. The interview with Captain Jean Luc Picard is particularly skillful, the captain acknowledging that he is a survivor of Cardassian torture yet still believes that the Federation’s mission requires them to act. He is clearly a practiced giver of moral speeches.

The last quote is from Dr. Crusher, the director of the Aid Bureau and former CMO of the Enterprise, discussing the difficulties she has had in getting a policy exemption. Garak wonders if all doctors are so stubbornly equitable about who they care for, or if somewhere in Starfleet there is a Chief Medical Officer who understands the need to let an enemy die.

The article ends with a call to action, inviting the reader to contact the Federation council.

Overall, they are good pieces of propaganda for a Federation audience. Garak even allows himself a moment to indulge in feeling proud, remembering the gangling teenager who lingered outside his shop with Nog, each daring the other to come in and courageously confront the Cardassian spy. (Of course, with the brash cowardice of youth, neither of them ever did.)

Neither article mentions Julian at all, but that is to be expected. From his genetic engineering to his unsavory association with an enemy alien, Garak can think of a dozen ways one might smear the good doctor’s good name. If the campaign is to be successful, it must feature those with unimpeachable reputations.

It’s positive news all around, both for the Cardassian Union and for Julian. That means no need for Garak to mourn, nothing for him to regret. If he feels sad, well, all emotions ultimately pass.

_My dear doctor,_

_I must congratulate you and Mr. Sisko. You have accomplished quite a feat, and even if you do not get the response you desire, I and the union will be forever grateful for your attempts to help us in our time of need. Congratulations are also in order to Mrs. Yates-Sisko._

_I assume, from what you’ve said, that you intend to remain on the station? The Bajorans are very lucky to you have you to help them heal._

_-Garak_

The reply is long-awaited, and when it arrives, consists of only one line.

_Garak,_

_I’ll see you soon._

_-Julian_

There is a single news clipping attached, this time by an unfamiliar author.

_**Deep Space Doctor Appointed Aid Liaison to Cardassia** _

_Dr. Beverly Crusher, Director of the Federation Aid Bureau, has announced the appointment of Dr. Julian Bashir as the Interim Aid Liaison to Cardassia. Bashir has spent the last eight years as Chief Medical Officer on the station Deep Space 9 in the Bajoran Sector…_

The article goes on, but Garak lingers at the beginning. He rereads the headline three times before he lets himself believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know chapters ago I said I wanted to subvert Julian-saves-Cardassia, and here I have him saving the day. Why is it different? It was important to me that he make a difference not due to his genetic engineering or an inclination towards martyrdom, but as a result of compassion, persistence, and the bonds he’s formed with his community. The lesson that even the best doctor can't save everyone is still taken to heart, but maybe combined with a lesson about asking for help and not trying to take on the universe's ills single-handedly.


	37. The Enterprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Enterprise-B takes a detour to bring Julian to Cardassia. He spends some time with the crew in 10 Forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? I was raised on The Next Generation and it seems to have found its way in here

Ten Forward is about as unlike Quark’s as a place can be. It is scrupulously clean, has a low ambient volume, and is generally populated almost entirely by sober people relaxing with pleasant conversation or a quiet game of chess. It has its own share of stories (Keiko informed Julian that Worf had delivered her first baby there), but it doesn’t have scantily clad employees or gambling or overpriced, watered-down alcohol of dubious origin.

After years on Deep Space 9, with only brief stints on Risa or another starbase for variation, Julian doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

The people are friendly, at least. They take one glass of synthaholic champagne each and toast fondly to him and Dr. Crusher in absentia. The bartender, Guinan, does not try to charge him for any of it, and listens politely as he babbles a bit more than he means to about how he’s so _excited_ to be here but _nervous_ too and he doesn’t quite know how he’ll be received on Cardassia.

He catches himself before specifying that he is talking about Garak, so he saves himself the humiliation of explaining that, but the whole ordeal is a reminder that a warm, enigmatic El Aurian can present more danger than a latinum-minded Ferengi.

After he escapes the bar, redder than he was before, a dark-haired woman in medical blue approaches him with a wide smile. He didn’t meet her, the last time he was aboard, but he must have seen her in the corridor, because there is something familiar about her.

“Welcome aboard the Enterprise-E, Dr. Bashir,” she greets him. “I’m Deanna Troi, the ship’s counselor.”

Based on the sparkling black eyes, she’s definitely Betazoid. He tries not to think about Garak.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“You and I have an acquaintance in common.”

“Miles?” Julian grins, ready to dig for stories, preferably any that Miles wouldn’t want him to know. “He’s one of my closest friends.”

“Actually, I was thinking of my mother.” Deanna recites dramatically, “Lwaxana Troi, daughter of the Fifth House, holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed.”

“You’re Ambassador Troi’s daughter?” Julian gapes, which is probably rude, but he can’t help it. He thinks Lwaxana did mention having a daughter, at one point, but she tended to communicate primarily in monologue and Julian’s mind had once or twice wandered while she was talking. (The embarrassing thing was that she knew instantly, of course, and chided him soundly for it.)

“Yes. She’s mentioned you, you know. You’re on her list.”

Julian isn’t sure that on Lwaxana Troi’s list is a place anyone wants to be. He tries to recall the last interaction he had with her. If it was arguing with her about whether or not she was too old to have Zanthi Fever, he doubts that she left with a favorable impression of him.

“What list?”

“Let’s see… it’s either her list of ‘nice young men that I can introduce you to if you just say the word, little one,’ or her list of ‘nice young men that I’m going to have a very good time with if you don’t make your move first.’”

Julian sputters, sloshing synthahol. Lwaxana had made a comment or two when they were first introduced, but nothing outrageous, more along the lines of Garak, actually- _what a_ thoughtful _young man, how_ nice _we’ve met._ Her attention was redirected to the single-minded pursuit of Odo shortly thereafter. And hadn’t she said that Odo reminded her of the Enterprise’s captain?

“I wouldn’t take it personally,” Deanna says, although Julian doesn’t think there is any other way to take it. “My mother is… eccentric.”

That is putting it mildly.

“I’ve certainly never met anyone like her.” Julian has never had much reason to be grateful for his parents, but he now finds himself thankful that his mother, for all her faults, is at least not interested in romantically pursuing his coworkers.

A younger Julian would have lingered with the beautiful Deanna, regaling her with his infamous final exam story and probably attempting a comparison or two between her eyes and the starry space out the viewport. Instead, he finds himself back at the bar, asking Guinan about kanar. She produces a bottle with round base and spiraled neck ( _perfect for special occasions_ , she says knowingly), and Julian shouldn’t ask if she would be willing to part with it, not after the last gift of kanar ended so poorly, but he feels sort of as if he owes Garak another bottle.

“Welcome back, Julian.” That is one of the many things Julian appreciates about Lieutenant Commander Data. He asked to be called Julian, and Data replied ‘very well’ and proceeded to do so. It had not been that easy with Miles or Kira. Garak still refuses.

“Data!” Julian turns with a grin. “It’s been a long time.”

“In fact, it has been 6 years, 9 months-”

“And 22 days,” Julian finishes. “It’s good to see you again.”

Their correspondence had been regular at first. It began with collaboration on a paper for the Starfleet Cybernetics Journal about Data’s dream program, but the communications continued for almost four years afterwards, natural for two brilliant, curious minds eager to share their knowledge with others.

“I am happy to inform you that I am now able to honestly respond that it is good to see you, too.”

“Of course, the emotion chip! Between dreams, emotions, and a fraught relationship with your family, I can’t think of much that separates you from a human now.”

Data considers this seriously.

“I still possess greater speed, strength, and computational abilities than most humans.”

“So do I.” Even after a few years of living openly, it’s still a little strange to Julian to be able to admit it out loud. “I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your last letter. I did appreciate it.”

“I was not sure if you were offended by my comparison between our two situations.”

Far from it. Julian had wanted to tell Data since they first met. To say, _I know what it’s like, to look human but still be an outsider, to_ _do what they can’t,_ _to be so excited to share what I know and not understand_ _why they don’t want to hear it, to know that I see more than them and hear more than them and_ _yet_ _not know why I_ _still miss all the cues_.

“Not at all. I- I was embarrassed, I suppose.” Julian glances down to rest his champagne glass on the bar. “I feel as if I got off easy compared to you. After all, you had to have a court rule whether you were a person or property. It was only my career that was in danger.” A life with a prison term and his medical license revoked would not have been much of a life for Julian at all, but it wouldn’t have killed him. Commander Maddox’s experiments would very likely have killed Data.

“I believe that is still a considerable loss, is it not?” Data counters. “You should not be punished for the actions of your parents.”

That had been one of the arguments of the Vulcan contingent, who did not have an equivalent to the Eugenics Wars and did not agree that Earth history should dictate Federation-wide policy. They had been overruled.

“I did break the law. I knew it was illegal for me to apply to Starfleet Medical, and I did it anyway.” With tears and trepidation and no malicious intent beyond a desire to heal people and get as far away from his parents as possible, but he had done it.

“That does not mean the rule is fair.”

“Superior ability breeds superior ambition,” Julian quotes without feeling. It is a tired refrain.

“Perhaps. However, your superior ambition appears to be simply to be a good doctor.”

Julian feels an urge to hug Data, but refrains, not knowing how it would be accepted. Instead, he places a hand on Data’s arm.

“I’ll write you while I’m on Cardassia,” he promises. It is the most sincere expression of gratitude that he can think of, a commitment to renewing their friendship.

“I am most interested to hear your report. You will be the first Federation citizen to spend significant time on the planet.” Data cocks his head, a familiar mannerism. “May I ask you a personal question?”

“It would be only fair. After all, that’s what everyone asks when they first meet you.”

“Is it true that you were offered a position here on the Enterprise?”

Oh. That kind of question. Julian had been expecting something more along the lines of what everyone wants to know about Data, the true extent of his physical and mental abilities.

“Yes.” It could have been nice, to be Data’s crewmate, to be on a mission of exploration, to find his way back to being a golden boy in the fleet. But it wouldn’t have been real. A fantasy with no substance, a person he does not want to be. “I turned it down. I have… other goals.”

“Such as petitioning for aid to Cardassia?”

“That was one of them.” The others, he has not given up on. He is simply revising his strategy.

The Enterprise is in some ways a ship with no mission, which simultaneously means they have every mission. They sail around doing everything from making first contact to delivering supplies to hosting diplomatic talks. It is a crew with connections, resources, autonomy, and an ongoing drive to take on the new, the difficult, the exciting. Nor do they hesitate to challenge the status quo; just this past year they disobeyed direct orders from an admiral in order to stop the violation of the Prime Directive and protect an indigenous people’s right to their own planet.

Julian looks Data in the eye, and makes a decision.

“Data, have you ever heard of Section 31?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the potentials of a friendship between Julian and Data.


	38. Planetside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion on Cardassia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Syaunei for talking about the graffiti and meanings with me!

Bringing flowers to greet a romantic partner, especially after a long absence, appeared to be a pattern across some of the human literature Julian gave to Garak. For a few wild moments, Garak had considered trying to create a bouquet.

But, he reminds himself, this is not a romantic meeting. They are friends, and even that is improbably sublime.

(And real, live flowers, growing in the ground, are better than a lifeless bundle anyways.)

Julian materializes, looking rather unfairly radiant in Garak’s opinion. The flirtatious snipe is out before he can help himself.

“Doctor, I see you’ve chosen to reign in your vulgar human impulses and wear trousers this time.”

Julian rolls his eyes, which is expected, then wraps his arms around Garak in an embrace, which is not. Garak stiffens, uncertain how to proceed. His family and former career were not ones that gave him a good deal of experience with hugs.

“I did it just for you,” says a warm voice in his ear, and what can Garak do but melt?

“Welcome back,” he murmurs, and his rebellious throat almost makes it _welcome home_.

Garak has no sense of how long a socially acceptable embrace should last, but he does have a suspicion that it should be shorter in public, so he pulls back before he truly wants to. Julian runs a hand through his thick, curly hair, grinning.

“The stones are gone,” he notes. “You didn’t move them all yourself, did you?”

“With my bad back?” Garak widens his eyes with affected incredulity. “Surely I wouldn’t be so irresponsible.”

“If your back is bothering you, I’d be happy to take a look at it.”

That is a consummately professional offer, and it is only wishful thinking on Garak’s part that makes it sound like a proposition for the other meaning of consummate.

“Perhaps another time,” he prevaricates.

Julian’s smile threatens to split his face in two.

“I’ll hold you to that. I hope to be here for at least a few years.”

What a beautiful, wonderful hope that is.

“Cardassia is lucky to have you, my dear,” Garak says, and includes himself in that collective.

They set Julian’s belongings down in Garak’s little home, but they do not linger there for long. Julian is eager to see what in the city has changed in his absence, so they stroll down the streets, Garak narrating as they go. He praises the community’s efforts to clear safe walking paths and aqueducts, then points out where a statue of Dukat had been (“good riddance,” he announces, and Julian agrees).

Julian tactfully says nothing when they pass by ramshackle tent cities, built with scavenged pieces from hollowed out and flattened houses, but Garak notices the clouds in his bright eyes all the same. Garak tries to distract him by describing the fountains that once decorated the public park, and the tall buildings with curved spires at the top.

He wants Julian to know it was beautiful, once. That it will be again.

“I’m sorry, Garak,” Julian says softly. “I know how much you missed it.”

Garak did, deeply and achingly, every day of exile. But he missed the feeling of belonging as much as the sights and scents and sounds of home. He missed having a sense of purpose as much as he missed Cardassia Prime’s sun.

The warmth seeps into his scales, and that softens the blow, as does the deepening of his connections to the city’s people and his belief that he can work for the good of Cardassia in a way that finally sheds no blood. Sometimes at night, he looks at his plants and his stars and finds that he does not notice the absence of the city skyline in the way he used to.

He does not miss the way that the ubiquitous looming broadcast screens reminded him that Tain was always watching.

“The country I left does not exist anywhere except in my imagination,” Garak quotes. “Which is, perhaps, a good thing.”

Julian frowns for a moment, uncomprehending, before his smile bursts forth, a ray of light.

“You _did_ like the poems!”

“Really, Doctor, you must have realized by now that the value of literature does not solely rest in whether or not we like it. It must serve a higher purpose.” He is being purposefully pompous, and Julian’s reaction does not disappoint.

“But doesn’t our like or dislike of it color its effectiveness in achieving that purpose? You’re less likely to learn the intended lesson of a story if you think all of the characters are boring, lifeless, and unrelatable.”

“Are you casting aspersions on the _Never-Ending Sacrifice_?”

“That depends, are you admitting that you don’t like it?”

They continue quarreling as they walk, the spark back in Julian’s eyes. Cardassians stare and whisper as they pass, which Garak doesn’t blame them for. After all, he is shamelessly flirting with an alien.

When he catches their eyes, he smiles.

They next pause by the sprawling graffiti confessional. Julian stares, jaw slightly slack.

“It’s bigger than the picture you sent me,” he comments.

It has grown. Almost every day Garak observes a new addition. His eyes trace the scrawled statements: _I betrayed him. She was my mother_.

Julian is learning Cardassian, but he still has not seen Garak’s handwriting. He will not know which confessions Garak wrote.

“There was one I couldn’t translate,” Julian confides. “I’ve been agonizing over it for forever.”

“That one?” Garak suggests, pointing to the admission he suspects is Kelas Parmak’s, if he remembers the man’s handwriting correctly. (He finds it hard to forget the way those interrogated signed their confessions.)

The one that might be Parmak’s reads, _I choose to forget him_. Garak wonders if that is about him, or someone else. It would be narcissistic to assume he’s the only thing Parmak might want to forget.

“No, it was shorter… Look, up there, in red, near the top. ‘I-something-him.’”

Garak looks.

“Ah, that one.”

“Well? What does it mean?”

It means _I love him_ , but Garak isn’t sure he’s ready to translate that. It is the wrong kind of love, a transgressive type that comes before the family, before the state. The kind of concept that results in banned books, several of which Garak has read and which Julian might even like.

What is the harm in telling him? That he will know Cardassians are capable of a depth of feeling, despite what the Bajorans would leave one to believe?

“It means love, Doctor,” he says, as if translating something very banal.

“It does not,” Julian argues, even though he already admitted to not knowing. “You may not be giving me soppy romance novels but I do remember the times the characters have said they’ve loved each other.”

“It is a… different kind of love. Not the kind we discuss in public.” Love in general is not a topic Cardassians are given to discussing in public, but Julian has a way of getting Garak to break social mores.

“Oh.” Julian still looks as if he doesn’t quite believe him, but Garak has at least bought time until they are back home.

Back in the home they share. All those years ago, when Garak first laid eyes on the handsome young human doctor, he would never have imagined it.

“Tell me about your aid program,” he says to change the subject, and Julian launches into the topic with fervor.

“I remember when we were talking about the right to refuse, and I don’t want to forget that,” Julian explains. “We’ll get an introduction to the local government and ask them what they need, and they can turn us down if they want to. It will get tricky if Lakat wants help restoring their transit line to Culat, for example, and Culat tells us to shove off, but then hopefully they’ll be able to work it out among themselves instead of the Federation trying to make all the decisions for them. I’m meeting with the council of sector representatives for the capital city in a few days. Do you know anything about them?”

Garak has grown in countless ways, but he still cannot resist allowing himself some mystery.

“Very little,” he lies, and prepares himself for Julian to be surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My next update will likely be delayed- the next chapter is slow in coming out of me. Something about being so close to the end makes it feel like added pressure, I think?
> 
> EDITED TO ADD: There is now artwork of this!!! Check out Ectogeo's illustration of Garak and Julian looking at the graffiti wall: https://ectogeo-art.tumblr.com/post/638987152053698560/wip-whenever-thanks-for-the-tag-sapphosewrites


	39. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actual communication occurs

“You could have told me, you know.”

“Pardon me for withholding the truth from you, Doctor. I must admit that I wanted to see the expression on your face.”

“I’m proud of you,” Julian tells Garak. “Surprised, but proud of you.”

They are home after Julian’s first meeting with the city council, featuring a very familiar representative for the Paldar Sector.

Julian is not annoyed at Garak for keeping it a secret, not really. The meeting went well, and he is in too good a mood to be irritated. Besides, he was telling the truth. He really is proud.

Garak smiles, and it’s a real one, both soft and sly.

“Thank you, my dear,” he says, and Julian feels that _my dear_ like an ache in his heart.

He’s going to be brave tonight. He has already made a deal with himself. If he’s about to ruin everything, he’ll do it now, at the beginning, so he has time to figure things out in the aftermath.

“I brought just the gift to celebrate with.” He pulls the bottle of kanar out of his pack, a gift (the real, free kind) from Guinan.

“How thoughtful.” But Garak does not look pleased. If anything, he looks concerned. “Do you think we should risk it, Doctor? Our previous experiences drinking together have been… eventful.”

Oh.

Cheeks burning, Julian looks away.

“I wanted to make up for last time, but if you aren’t comfortable-”

“You mistake me. I wasn’t thinking about your last time on Cardassia. I was remembering on the station, when you asked for my help. And before that, during the unfortunate incident of my implant.”

Right. When Garak needled him about being tortured by Romulans, and when Garak got drunk in Quark’s (an event never seen before or since).

Perhaps Garak does have a point.

Julian smiles ruefully.

“Maybe if we talked to each other when we’re sober, it wouldn’t all come out when we’re drinking,” he posits.

Garak does not look convinced.

“We talk to each other often,” he reminds Julian.

That is true, but only to a point. In each of the incidences they remember and regret, the alcohol only served to unlock the things they chose to leave unsaid, out of shame or regret or fear.

“We do,” Julian agrees slowly. “But not about what really counts.”

“And what subjects _really count_?” Garak sounds ready to launch into an argument about the importance of Cardassian literature, and while Julian would enjoy that discussion, it’s not the one he’s trying to have currently.

He looks Garak squarely in the eyes.

“Why don’t you call me Julian?”

Garak blinks. For someone who tries never to show what he is feeling, he looks startled.

“You haven’t invited me to,” he says.

“Now, that’s a lie. I tried to get you to stop calling me ‘doctor’ for months.”

“When we first met.” Garak’s tone implies that this should be self-explanatory.

“So it wasn’t appropriate then?” Julian asks. Garak doesn’t contradict him. “What about now?”

Julian is ready to fight about it, if necessary. Even on Cardassia, sleeping in someone’s house is a level of intimacy that should allow for first names.

“Very well,” Garak concedes unexpectedly. “Julian.”

He makes an odd expression as he says it, one that Julian can’t quite read. He hopes it’s a good one, and that he hasn’t just made Garak massively uncomfortable.

Well, that’s what this night is for. Ripping off the bandage, to use an antiquated expression. Nothing for it but to forge ahead and push his luck.

“What does that word actually mean, Garak? The one that you said means love?”

“I didn’t lie,” Garak replies instead of answering.

“No, but I get the feeling you didn’t tell me the whole truth. Why can’t you talk about it in public?” There is a chance, of course, that it is simply vulgar. The universal translator never processes expletives, after all. But _I fuck him_ seems out of place with the other confessions. Then again, who knows with Cardassians?

Garak sighs.

“It’s something of a taboo, Doc- Julian,” he corrects himself. “The word refers to a kind of love that is dangerous, all-consuming. A love that someone might put ahead of their family, ahead of the state.”

Loving someone more than the state is- or was- the worst kind of crime on Cardassia, as far as Julian can tell. Otherwise there wouldn’t be so many books about legates turning in their disloyal spouses and children. It makes sense that they would feel threatened by a love that undermines the state’s tyrannical authority.

The kind of love that might lead you to abandon your post, to take a last-minute leave of absence and fly directly into the unknown, because you can think of only one person who will keep you safe.

The kind of love that accepts you showing up last-minute on their doorstep, and promises that you can rest for as long as you need to, but won’t force you to stay if you need to leave.

The kind of love that challenges you, that pushes you to grow, that you miss when it’s gone and no amount of letters will even come close to the real thing.

It would really help to be drunk for this, but Julian wants to do it better than the last time.

He takes a deep breath and digs his nails into his palms.

“ _I love you_ ,” he says, in subversive Cardassian.

“Excuse me?” Garak says.

That’s… not exactly the reaction Julian was hoping for, but he can’t take it back now.

“I love you,” he repeats in Federation Standard. “I know that I’m a mess and it’s not a good time but it’s never been a good time, not for us, and I understand if you don’t feel the same way, really I do, and I can find some other place to stay if it makes you uncomfortable, it won’t change my work with the Aid Bureau, but I wanted you to know. And I wanted to know how you felt… about me…”

Garak isn’t responding. Garak isn’t responding and Julian is starting to panic, because he has just made an enormous mistake. Why did he have to say anything? Why couldn’t he learn his lesson about forcing his feelings on other people? This is just like Jadzia, just like Sarina.

“I may have exaggerated the number of past tenses in Cardassian, but they do exist,” Garak finally says.

It takes Julian a moment to process what that has to do with anything.

“I mean it in the present tense. I love you, now, right here, the way we are at this moment.”

“I see.” Garak blinks again, and Julian holds his breath. “Is that why you came to Cardassia?”

The answer is Garak’s favorite kind, a truth with many faces.

“I came because Cardassia deserves aid, the Federation should give it, and I intend to make sure that they do, no matter how you feel about me. But it also did offer me an opportunity to spend more time with you. You make me happy,” Julian admits.

He has never said it directly. Usually, he and Garak primarily communicate how irritating they find each other, how much they despair of the other making sense, how frustrating their entire species can be.

There will still be a time and place for that (if there is still a time and place for him in Garak’s life after this). But this evening is for confessions.

“Then your use of the word is incorrect. You did not put your love for me ahead of the state.”

Julian stares at Garak open-mouthed, comprehension dawning.

“I just confessed that I’m in love with you, and you’re nitpicking my word choice?”

“I did volunteer to teach you Cardassian, and it would be a shame to shirk my duties.” Garak’s bright eyes belie his serious tone. “It would be much more accurate for _me_ to use that word, my dear, since loving you has led me to make any number of regrettable choices.”

“Name one.”

“If Siana is to be believed, I am putting myself in grave danger by exposing myself to your sweat.”

“Because you told her that, you git!” Julian pulls himself back from the brink of bickering to realize the word choice. _Loving you…_ He starts to laugh. “You beautiful, wonderful _asshole_. What kind of a confession is that?”

“If it will make you happy, I’ll try again.” Garak reaches out and takes hold of Julian’s hand. “My dear Julian, I love you. I am _in_ love with you. I have been in love with you. I will be in love with you. To borrow your own quaint expression, I want to fuck you senseless.”

Julian, still laughing heartily, does the thing that feels most natural.

He leans in, and kisses Garak.


	40. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short but it says what I want it to say, I think. I sure hope you all like saccharine

The morning light is golden when Julian starts to stir. He opens his eyes to see Garak sitting at the table, watching him contemplatively.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, voice still soft and slurred with sleep.

“Breakfast,” Garak answers simply. It’s a believable, practical answer, and if he really has just been sitting there thinking about how lucky he is to have Julian Bashir in his life, he is not ready to admit that yet.

Julian gives a jaw-cracking yawn and stretches out, long limbs akimbo.

“Luckily for you, I came prepared.” He gestures lazily to his bags, tucked away in the corner. “I’ve got ration bars, red leaf tea, and water purification tablets.”

A luxurious breakfast, in the new Cardassia. The ration bars have already lost their appeal, but the red leaf tea is a treat.

Since Julian is disinclined to move, Garak makes his way over to begin assembling the meal.

“Mmm, I could get used to this,” Julian mumbles, watching with half-lidded eyes.

“Sleeping on the floor?” Garak asks teasingly. Julian chuckles ruefully.

“No, I could do without that part. I meant waking up with you.”

The future is full of a thousand unknowns. Julian’s posting is not forever, and neither is Garak’s position on the city council. Maybe in ten years they’ll be living on Earth as a doctor and an ambassador, or in a small house with a garden in some backwater colony on the edge of the quadrant, or Julian will be running a hospital while Garak leads the Cardassian Union. Maybe they’ll adopt war orphans, or develop ground-breaking techniques for in vitro fertilization of Cardassian-human hybrids, or live a happily childless life where they are so busy and in love and fulfilled they don’t feel a need for more. Maybe their time will be spent arguing and making love and reading books together, and if one of them wakes up shaking in the middle of the night caught in a fog of memories, the other will be there to hold them tight and murmur gently that everything will be all right.

Maybe their pasts will never truly go away. There may always be Section 31’s specter lurking, or someone who knows what Garak has done and is not as inclined as Parmak to forgive. Loving and forgiving others and themselves and their worlds may be a process that takes an entire lifetime, if it ever ends.

Perhaps there will be times when things between them are strained and strange, where they wonder if they made the right choices, if their sacrifices have been worth it. But even in such times, perhaps they will come back to this, teasing each other over tea, smiling from the joy of knowing that the person you care most about loves you too.

It is impossible to predict, as the future always is. But for now, they have a present that is golden and warm, and room to grow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact- my original title for this was "The End," because it took place at the end of the series, and then I wanted to get to the actual last part of the fic and put "The Beginning" where 'the end' would usually go.  
> But then 40 chapters seemed like a long time for that to pay off, and I liked Growth better thematically.
> 
> Thank you all for joining me on this journey! Never in my life have I written something so long or involved and I have learned a tremendous amount from the process (including, though perhaps cliched, learning about myself).


End file.
